SELF & PARTNERS(MOSTLY SELF)

759.292

759.1

JloImesJU.'JO

Keep Your Card in This Pocket

library cards.

Unless labeled otherwise, books may be retained
or two weeks. Borrowers finding books marked de-
aced or mutilated are expected to report same at
library desk; otherwise foe last borrower will be held
responsible for all imperfections discovered.

The card holder is responsible for all books drawn
on tnis card.

Penalty for over-due books 2c a day plus cost oi

nonces.

Lost cards and change of residence must be re
ported promptly.

Public Library

Kansas City, Mo.

TENSION ENVfcLOPE CORR,

. ,

90 th'6y "''#

"Toe -s

SELF AND PARTNiRS

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY

NEW YORK . BOSTON . CHICAGO . DALLAS
ATLANTA. . SAN FRANCISCO

C. J. HOLMES

(Photo: London News Agency)

SELF & PARi-NEJLS

; * ; %*

(MOSTLY SELF)

Being the Reminiscences of
C. J. HOLMES

'Not Art, of course, or any nonsense of that

SOrt/ FAMILY RULING, 1890.

' What do you mean to do on retirement ? To
paint! Have you done any painting before?'

OFFICIAL BLESSING, 1 928.

THE MACMILLAN COMPANY
NEW YORK . MCMXXXV1

Copyright, 1936, by
CHARLES J. HOLMES

All rights reserved no part of this book may be
reproduced in any form without permission in writing
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes
to quote brief passages in connection with a review
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper.

PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA
BY THE POLYCRAPHIC COMPANY OF AMERICA, N.Y.

TO

MY WIFE

PREFACE

THOSE who look to me for sensation must, I fear, be dis
appointed. No splendid adventures, ambitions, intimacies
like those of Cellini, Haydon, or my friend Rothenstein can
brighten these pages. Mine has been a c safety first ' life
of office jobs, done to pay my way, to give very various
masters some return for their money, and, incidentally, to
dilute passion, fashion and prejudice in the arts with tepid
common sense. Where the details are so trite, a chrono
logical narrative is, on the whole, less tedious than any
forced effort at literary pattern. If the reader gets bored,
he (or she) has only to skip five or six paragraphs to reach
something quite different; to escape from shopkeeping to
pictures, from domestic events to administrative bliss, from
realities to fishing.

My motto has been that of our good vicar, ' Truth with
Charity.' Unpleasant characters, unreliable persons in
general, may not have vanished from the world, but each,
in time, condemns himself and needs no extra branding.
Omission is more honest than whitewash, and safer. To
restore the blurred outlines of fact, I have had to quote some
remarks not primarily made for publication ; casual sayings
stick in the mind when actual events have grown dim. Old
letters, too, compel so many revisions of crude memory that
quotation from them is occasionally needed ; though, as this
is not a history of other people, I have refrained from draw
ing much upon that fashionable source of entertainment.

Few are likely to share my quite Chinese attachment to

vii

SELF AND PARTNERS

things so remote, so completely trivial, as the story of my
forebears and childhood; yet to omit this would falsify the
self-picture. As I look through the rather pitiful papers and
letters of my parents, it is impossible to ignore the effect of
their troubles upon my own beginnings. The Great War, and
the improvements in motor-traffic, have made us so familiar
with suffering and sudden death that we are no longer dis
posed to shed many tears over such insignificant victims of
the past. But it is well to remember that, for several critical
decades, the parochial clergy formed the chief link between
misery growing conscious of its power, and a civilization
by turns indifferent, contemptuous, frightened; the frail
barrier between forces which might otherwise, in clashing
together, have smashed the patchwork machinery upon
which we all depend for existence.

The death of Lord Curzon in 1925 provides a natural
finale. He was almost the last of our elder Statesmen ; with
him an epoch comes to an end. What went before, so
quickly do things move, is already ancient history and
material for the chronicler. Recent events cannot yet be
seen in the same true perspective, and are best left alone ;
especially when they happen to include very little that is
in the least amusing.

Since I owe everything in life to the help and tolerance
of others, I would specially ask forgiveness if some unlucky
turn of phrase, or chance omission, makes me anywhere
seem ungrateful. Retrospect also compels profound thank
fulness for the good fortune which has saved me from the
penalty of countless errors and follies. Does Providence
try to make amends for the calamities of one generation
by treating the next to the exact opposite ? Only so can I
explain the contrast between my father's luck and my

own.

viii

PREFACE

Thanks are also due to the Controller of H.M. Stationery
Office for permission to reprint sundry extracts from my
evidence before the Royal Commission on National
Museums and Galleries in 1928, and to Mr. Walter Stone-
man and Mr. A. C. Cooper for the excellent photographs
of J. D. Milner and Roger Fry.

London,
Jan. 1936

IX

SOME PICTURES AND DRAWINGS IN
PUBLIC COLLECTIONS

ADELAIDE. Rotherham Campagna. 1934.

BLACKBURN. Samlesbury Hall. 10 paintings of Blackburn and

District, and 33 water-colours.
CAMBRIDGE. Farmyard, Soberton. 1924.
JOHANNESBURG. Bortree Tarn. c. 1908.
LEAMINGTON. Approach to Rome. 1935.
LEEDS. Industrial Landscape and 6 water-colours.

University. Summer on the Fells, c. 1908,
LIVERPOOL. Yellow Wall Blackburn, 1932, and i water-colour.
LONDON. Tate Gallery. Red Ruin Lucerne, 1906 ; The Burn
ing Kiln, 1914 ; Whernside, 1917.

British Museum. 3 water-colours.

Victoria and Albert Museum. 4 water-colours.
MANCHESTER. The My then, 1903 ; Biasca, 1908 ; Keswick

Mountains, 1921.
MELBOURNE. Black Hill Moss, 1910.

OXFORD. The Old Man from Levers Water, 1910, and i water-
colour.

PRESTON. Watendlath Tarn ; Langdale Pikes ; The Scholar-
Gipsy ; and 2 water-colours.

SOUTHPORT. Newby Hall, 1923, and i water-colour.

STOKE-ON-TRENT. The Eden near Lazonby, 1926, and i water-
colour,

SYDNEY. Stony Field -Middleton Teesdale, 1914-17.

VANCOUVER. Temple Newsam Woods, 1932.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. PROGENITORIAL (768-1868) . . . * A i
Ancestral Mythology; Charlemagne; Sir Robert and Miss
Holmes; the hero of ' Edwin Drood 3 ; John Holmes of the
British Museum; the Rivingtons; my father's childhood;
piety and * the rod ' ; at Cambridge ; in France ; ordination ;
rny mother; St. John's Parish Paper; smallpox; marriage;
St. Michael's, Bromley; the cholera; breakdown; Morell
Mackenzie; Mentone; Cornwall.

CHAPTER II. CHILDHOOD (1868-1877) 18

Wanderings in Cornwall; Stratton; Dr, Temple; fancies of
childhood; my father's death; life at Bude; at Preston; at
Awliscombe; 'Aladdin'; first ideas of landscape; school
at Budleigh and Ottery St. Mary ; we move to Preston.

CHAPTER III. CANTERBURY AND PRESTON (1878-1881) 38

The Clergy Orphan School: clothes, food and fagging; the
mumps; fishing the Gudgeon Stream; the ghost in the tunnel ;
the house at Preston ; fishing and archery ; my brother Frank :
Preston Grammar School; the Rev. A. B. Beaven; E. B.
Osborne; Ingleborough ; ' The Tarn and the Lake '; geology,

CHAPTER IV. CANTERBURY AND ETON (1881-1884) . 59

Canterbury after the epidemic; a great schoolboy; the snow
storm of 1 88 1 ; impressions at Windsor; a scholarship at
Eton; cursed by Ruskin ; College at Eton ; discipline and idle
ness; the Wall Game; ' Eton as She is Not '; ragging and its
consequences ; a rebellion.

CHAPTER V. ETON AND RUSKIN (1885-1887) . . 76

Discovery of * Modern Painters ' ; attempts at drawing ; the
Library at Windsor Castle ; Glutton-Brock .as critic and poet ;
Lionel Headlam ; fishing with Eric Parker ; Edmond Warre ;
curiosity and religion; scholarship-hunting at Hertford,
Christ's and Brasenose ; my last day at Eton.

xi

SELF AND PARTNERS

CHAPTER VI. BRASENOSE (1887-1889) ... 94

A tour in Scotland ; pictures at Manchester and Preston ; carp
and eels at Kirkham; friends and dons at Brasenose; Dr.
Butler; Dr. Bussell; Walter Pater; the Rev. A. Chandler;
boxing and other exercises; sketching and collecting; the
Windrush ; offer from Mr. Rivington.

CHAPTER VII. RIVINGTONS (1889-1890) . . .112

The Rivington firm ; Francis Rivington, churchman and man
of business ; my training ; life in London ; in Edinburgh with
W. B. Blaikie ; Henley and the ' Scots Observer ' ; curious
experience at Preston; death of my grandfather and my
brother; Mr. Rivington's anxieties; the business sold to
Longmans; introduction to Mr. Hanson.

CHAPTER VIII. THE BALLANTYNE PRESS (1890-1892) 129

Life as a compositor and proof-reader ; unemployment ; study
at South Kensington; Edward Arnold; visit to Holland and
Belgium ; art, cricket and a thunderstorm ; return to Ballan-
tyne's as book-keeper; Covent Garden characters; Rickctts
and Shannon befriend me; efforts at etching; return to
publishing.

CHAPTER IX. JOHN C. NIMMO (1892-1896) . .145

Mr. Nirnmo and his methods; 'remainders,' the 'Border
Edition ' of Scott ; William Strang ; our American colleagues ;
Sandy S ; Lord Ronald Gower; J. A. Symonds; attempt
to work oui a theory of painting; companions in Westminster ;
holidays at Wasdale and elsewhere; lost sketch-books; the
Theatre and the Opera; business difficulties; resignation.

CHAPTER X. THE VALE PRESS (1896-1903) . 163

Ricketts and Shannon; their friends and ideals; my literary
and artistic education; Oscar Wilde; 'The Sphinx' and
'Salome'; move from The Vale to Beaufort St. ; W. L, Hacon;
the Vale Press started; the shop in Warwick St. ; John Lane;
the sport of collecting; impressions of Italy Ricketts and
Glutton-Brock.

CHAPTER XL ROCHE'S (1896-1903) . . . .182
New ways of life ; financial anxieties ; two barrister cousins ;
writing for the 'Dome'; the company at Roche's; the
'Athenaeum'; cases of hubris; Conder at Dieppe; visit to
Italy; its effect upon painting; boxing and fishing.

xii

CONTENTS

PAGE

CHAPTER XII. MARRIAGE (1903) .... 204
Miss Rivington; Bruges; the Midland Railway; a book on
Constable ; James Orrock ; Norwich ; end of the Vale Press ;
marriage; Switzerland; a letter from Fry; negotiations for
the ' Burlington Magazine.'

CHAPTER XIII. THE e BURLINGTON MAGAZINE'

(1903-1909) ........ 217

Troubles of an economist; Diirer; Chantrey; questions of
public policy ; MacColl goes to Millbank ; Fry enlists help in
New York; collecting advertisements; some notable con
tributors ; Anatole France in Rome ; the Flora bust ; National
Gallery affairs.

CHAPTER XIV. THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP (1904-

i9 j o) 235

Slade Professor at Oxford and member of the New English Art
Club ; Sargent ; Sickert ; the International Society ; pictures
and lectures; my Oxford audience; honorary degrees; the
Ashmolean Museum ; disputes and discoveries ; Lord Curzon
and Mr. Balfour; Naples, Rome and Florence; painting at
Ladbroke Grove ; Littlehampton ; experiments in water-colour
and oils ; the house flooded ; entertainments ; my wife's music.

CHAPTER XV. THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

(i) (1909-1911) . . ... - - -259
Lionel Gust retires; fishing at Hawes; my appointment;
J. D. Milner ; Lord Dillon ; the Trustees ; needs of the Gallery ;
a 'Burlington' dinner; T. W. Bacon; Ricketts v. Fry at
Oxford; P. H. Lee-Warner; some curious portraits; poach
ing at Barnard Castle ; the Post- Impressionist controversy; the
New English Art Club at its best; books and personages;
Rembrandt's Mill; Mr. Asquith.

CHAPTER XVI. THE NAT IONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

(ii) (1912-1916) 290

Rearrangement of the Gallery; its importance to the Nation;
pleasures of Langton Field; Oscar Wilde monument; Hol
bein's Archbishop Warham; a story of Lord Curzon; exhibi
tion at Carfax; Reginald Farrer ; c The Tarn and the Lake ' ;
pictures and noble owners ; the suffragettes ; first consequences
of the War; the V.C.F. and the R.N.V.R. ; duty at Sandring-
ham; lectures at Dublin; arrest as a spy; retirement of
Holroyd; a letter to Lord Ribblesdale; appointment to
Trafalgar Square.

xiii

SELF AND PARTNERS

PACE

CHAPTER XVII. THE NATIONAL GALLERY (i) (1916-

1918) 3*8

Gallery troubles; first Board Meetings; Lord Curzon and
Lord Plymouth; Parliamentary Bills; the Lane Bequest; a
dinner-party ; spiritualism ; air-raids ; loan of a Tube station ;
an outrage; designs for war medals; war pictures; Bellini's
Bacchanal and other paintings; the Degas Sale in Paris;
Arnold Bennett and Lord Curzon; Lord Lansdowne elected
Chairman.

CHAPTER XVIII. PERSONAL DIVERSIONS (1919-1925) 345

Thoughts on public affairs; the Westminster Play; the Irish
Settlement; the Chequers Trust; honours; at Norwich and
Cambridge; Leonardo da Vinci; book on the National
Gallery; France and Spain; -expert evidence in Paris and
Holland; the N.E.A.C. ; the Grosvenor Gallery and the
R.W.S.; my wife's music; social experiences; fishing on the
Eden and the Windrush.

CHAPTER XIX. THE NATIONAL GALLERY (ii) (1919-

1925) 366

Voluntary and other assistants; redecoration and rearrange
ment; handbooks, photographs, lectures, music; help from
Parliament; the Lane and Chanlrey Bequests; Sir Aston
Webb; some notable pictures; two cause trouble; death of
Claude Phillips and other good friends; a claim by the
Inland Revenue; Lord Curzon's last years.

EPILOGUE 389

INDEX 397

xiv

LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS

C. J. HOLMES (Photo : London News Agency) . . Frontispiece

MY MOTHER (about 1861) : MY FATHER (1862) Facing page 10

A PAGE FROM THE PARISH PAPER OF ST.
JOHN'S, LIMEHOUSE FIELDS, February
1860 (Edited and produced by rny father when
curate) J3 12

MYSELF IN 1869 (Drawn by my father) 24

F. H. AND C. J. HOLMES, 1873 : C. J. HOLMES

AT ETON, 1884 72

WALTER PATER IN OXFORD: WALTER

PATER IN LONDON (Drawn by the author) 102

REGINALD CRIPPS and HAROLD CHILD

(Photos : Russell & Sons Ltd.) .... 108

FRANCIS RIVINGTON and W. L. HACON . 114

LAURENCE BINYON (After an etching by William

Strang) ,,152

THE PIPING TIMES OF PEACE : The evening of
August 25,1 893. A Discussion about the Theatre.
(Drawn by Ricketts) 165

JOHN C. NIMMO AFTER LUNCHING A

CUSTOMER (Drawn by the author) . . 165

CONDER, RICKETTS, HACON AND SHANNON

(Photographed at The Vale, 1893) ... 170

RICKETTS TAKEN FOR A WALK BY SAVAGE

AND SHANNON (Drawn by Shannon in 1892) 170

ROGER FRY (Photo : A. C. Cooper & Sons) . . 222

XV

SELF AND PARTNERS

LORD DILLON (From a medal by Sydney Carline) Facing page 264

J. D. MILNER (Photo : Russell & Sons Ltd.] . . 264

C. H. COLLINS BAKER, 1932 (After a drawing by

Francis Dodd, R.A.) 322

THREE DIRECTORS (Drawn by Willy Sluiter) . Between 356-7

LADY HOLMES (Photo : Elliot & Fry) . . Facing page 358

XVI

SELF AND PARTNERS

CHAPTER I
PROGENITORIAL

(768-1868)

Ancestral Mythology; Charlemagne; Sir Robert and Miss
Holmes ; the hero of ' Edwin Drood ' ; John Holmes of the
British Museum; the Rivingtons; my father's childhood;
piety and "the rod'; at Cambridge; in France; ordination;
my mother; St. John's Parish Paper; smallpox; marriage;
St. Michael's, Bromley; the cholera; breakdown; Morell
Mackenzie ; Mentone ; Cornwall.

As a subject of polite conversation, a man's own family
history ranks in interest with his prowess upon a suburban
golf-course. Nevertheless it is the recognized duty of a bio
grapher, particularly if his subject be of mean or common
place origin, to discover for him some fragment, filament,
figment or myth of respectable ancestry. I make no apology,
therefore, for delving in my studio cupboard, and fishing
out a grimy pedigree, wherein my birth is recorded in an
obscure corner, the place of honour at the top being occu
pied by Charlemagne. That surprising document, over
lapping when unrolled the whole dining-room table, starts
creditably enough. Charlemagne; Rollo, Duke of Nor
mandy ; Adeliza, sister of William the Conqueror ; Peter
de Brus (an ancestor of Robert, unaccountably omitted
from the D.N.B.), are but a few of the notable steps in
descent. A descent indeed it soon becomes; the track
narrowing down finally to one Anthony Lister of Newsome,
younger brother (if we trust this flattering record) to Thomas
Lister of Westby, who has his due place in the orthodox
Ribblesdale pedigree. But of younger brother Anthony that
pedigree says no word, and with him, I fear, must vanish
Charlemagne and all the rest of them. Elizabeth Lister,

i

SELF AND PARTNERS [768-1868

reputed Anthony's descendant, undeniably married m 1735
my ancestor, Christopher Swainson; and only with that
marriage can sober history start.

Charlemagne, however, is not the only hero in our
legendary past. A family myth connects us also with Sir
Robert Holmes, the swaggering sea-captain whom Pepys
so heartily disliked. This gentleman's other conspicuous
memorial to-day is his tomb in the church at Yarmouth,
Isle of Wight, where he once was governor. The tomb is
surmounted by a statue, originally, as the story goes, repre
senting Louis XIV, which was taken by Sir Robert, either
in one of his prizes or from a wreck. The face was then
re-cut into its new owner's likeness, and Sir Robert's head
now tosses under the great flaps of the helmet with a re
semblance so exact and so comic to my aunt, the late Miss
Holmes, that I am compelled to a sort of sneaking respect
for the legend. The thing, of course, is a gross caricature
of that clever, lively, kindly lady, but the expression is
identical with her habitual gesture when Radicals, flaunting
young women, or grammatical solecisms were forced upon
her notice.

Alas! neither pedigrees nor armorial bearings give any
support to this queer iconographic relationship. My father's
folk (so far as I know, and my cousin, Stephen Holmes, can
trace them) make their bow to history with no Sir Robert,
but with plain e John Holmes, Tayler, of Rochester.' Since
he died in 1703, he must have been Sir Robert's contempo
rary, and, at best, some lowly connexion. From the
frequent occurrence of the name Jasper among John's de
scendants, 1 he presumably was connected with the Jasper

1 John Holmes was followed by several generations of City merchants,
dealing in cheese and, more particularly, in leather, three of them in succession
being members of the Leathersellers* Company. A mural tablet in the Church
of St. Vedast recorded their undistinguished descent. My great-grandfather,
Nathaniel Holmes (b. 1764), had been a liveryman in the aforesaid Company,
but about 1 810 he retired to live at Derby, where he died thirty years later.
In 1794 he had married a certain Dorothy Farmer, and with Dorothy's
descendants ambitions arose for other things than cheese or leather.

Of the twelve children, only five lived much beyond infancy. The eldest
of their three sons, Nathaniel Reynolds Holmes, had a son also named Nathaniel,

2

768-1868] PROGENITORIAL

family of Rochester, so that in compiling a list of my mythical
relatives I can fairly add to Charlemagne and Sir Robert
Holmes the real hero of c Edwin Drood.'

The main facts about my grandfather, John Holmes ( 1 800-
1854)3 w ^l be found in the Dictionary of National Biography,
so that I need only supplement them on the personal side.
In some unexplained fashion he had made himself a remark
able linguist, and his abilities were displayed in the great
Catalogue, of no less than 815 pages, which he compiled
for Cochran of 148 Strand, a branch of the Rivington firm.
The result was his translation in 1830, through the influence
of Lord Bexley and others, to the Manuscript Department
of the British Museum. There he worked for the remainder
of his life, during the latter part of the time as Assistant-
Keeper. Taking a special interest in ecclesiastical history,
he became the correspondent, it would seem, of the whole
Bench of Bishops. His papers indicate friendly or familiar
relations not only with the Due d'Aumale and Lord Ash-
burnham, whose collections he helped to form, but also
with historians and men of letters, such as Guizot and
Lingard, Thackeray and Prosper Merimee. A few of the
letters are of interest even now. His relations with Panizzi,
the Trustees, and his colleagues at the Museum, as well as
with others like Lockhart, a man not easily pleased, were
also most cordial. His portrai in wax relief by Richard
Cockle Lucas, of 'Flora' fame, bears the inscription c Domus
Holmes, British Museum, 1849,' an d ^ e punning nickname,
which recurs not infrequently in letters addressed to him, is

who was an electrical pioneer, and the inventor, among other things, of the
Bude Light. The elder daughter, Harriet, marrying Joseph Toynbee, F.R.S.,
the famous aural surgeon, became the mother of the talented family which
included Arnold and Paget Toynbee. My grandfather, John Holmes, the
second surviving son, possessed, as we shall see, a somewhat similar blend of
piety and scholarship. The third son, Richard Jackson Holmes, started life
as a cadet in the forces of the East India Company, and as such was painted
in 1823 (R-A., No. 311) by R. R. Reinagle. He looks a handsome, reckless
fellow, and his letters from India, where he died in 1835, were preserved until
quite recent times, in virtue of their racy comments on contemporary life.
Ultimately they fell into the hands of a relative, a thorough-going Tory, who
was so shocked by the gossip which they contained about eminent persons
that she destroyed them, in blissful ignorance of the pecuniary value of scandal.

3

SELF AND PARTNERS [768-1868

some Indication that the stout little snub-nosed antiquary
was no unsociable creature.

This cordiality did not apparently extend to his family
connexions. With his father's people, except for the corre
spondence with his officer-brother in India, he had little to
do. Nor was he more intimate with his relatives by mar
riage. His wife was the eldest daughter of Charles Rivington
(1754-1831), who had for years been head of the Rivington
firm. The Rivington family tradition was intensely respect
able, being, like their sermons and devotional books, no less
safe doctrinally than commercially. From their standpoint
my grandfather's modest income, absorption in scholarship
and indifference to personal profit, appeared reprehensible,
even dangerous. Though not altogether displeased that
their new connexion should write for the < Quarterly Review '
and have other modest claims to literary repute, the fear
that they might some day be called upon to subsidize a
household so precariously financed was a bar to close
acquaintance. The Holmeses were, after all, poor relations,
of whom it was well not to see too much. Of all the family,
only my great-uncle, William Rivington the printer, and
his kindly, masterful wife became real friends.

After his marriage to Mary Anne Rivington in 1832,
John Holmes and his wife continued, for a while, to live in
the British Museum ; but moved to Highgate shortly before
my father's birth in April 1834. My father, Charles, was
the eldest of their five children, all of whom were given
the name of Rivington. Richard, afterwards Librarian at
Windsor, came next. The third son, Herbert, entered the
Navy; retired on account of his health while still Lieu
tenant, and at the time of his death was private secretary
to Lord Dufferin. Two daughters, Mary Anne and Emma,
came last.

The children were brought up, as the custom then was,
in an atmosphere of intensive piety and corporal punish
ment. My grandmother, like her husband, was a good
linguist, well read, and, with all her strictness in religious

4

768- 1 868] PROGENITORIAL

matters, neither unjust nor inconsiderate. Yet the record
she kept of the regime by which her tiny children were drilled
into virtue makes curious reading in these more easy-going
days, so curious that I may be forgiven if I quote one or
two extracts. My father, as the eldest of the family, seems
to have suffered most from the parental creed.

'Charles was very naughty to-day, and it was necessary
for his Papa to use the rod/ Poor little fellow ! He was not
yet four. Then, a few days later: 'This morning Charles
was repeating an answer in Watts' First Catechism, relative
to the Day of Judgment. Upon my remarking that this
was a very solemn day, he said, "Then we shall have a
plum bun. 9 ' Upon my expressing surprise at this strange
answer, he said, "Why, on a very solemn day you gave us
each a bun." Of course this led to an explanation of the
custom of having hot cross buns on Good Friday, and a
resolve on my part to discontinue it in future. 3

Later comes his fourth birthday and a summary of his
attainments. 'He can repeat the 23rd Psalm and seven
teen other texts, sixteen Hymns, Watts' First Catechism and
a chapter in the Infant Christian's Catechism ; he can read
all words of two letters at sight and many words of three
letters,' etc., etc. The virtues of charity and self-sacrifice
were also duly exacted. 'One day not long since, I asked
the little boys to give a trifle towards a fund for the relief
of the poor, and also something towards the Church Mis
sionary Society. Charles very cheerfully gave ten shillings
to one object, and something less to the other. Richard,
while examining his little store, observed, "But I must not
give all my living." ' Considering the ratio of the levy to
the probable contents of a five-year-old's money-box, the
hesitation may be excused.

Soon the teaching began to recoil upon the teachers.
'A few days since Charles said to me, "Papa mocked me,
Mama, one day and should he? He would not like to be
mocked himself, and you know he should do to others as he
would like them to do to him."' Again, 'I was reading

5

SELF AND PARTNERS [768-1868

the history of our Saviour's purging the Temple, and after
some remarks upon the sin of desecrating such places., Charles
said, " But Mr. Rivington sells books in St. Paul's Church
yard." ' On another occasion, when Sabbath-breaking, and
Sunday travelling in particular., were being explained and
condemned, the logical Charles inquires, "Then no ticket-
collector can love God? 9 '1 changed the conversation/
remarks his mother,, "as I did not wish the children to
become unduly censorious/

The whippings, if I may trust contemporary report, were
no less consistently applied, at least in my father's case,
than were the Bible lessons. Even those outside the home
circle did not always escape my grandfather's cane. His
nephew, Luke Rivington, was one day caught by him when
engaged in some boyish prank, and duly beaten. Thinking
from his manifestations of suffering that the punishment had
perhaps been rather too severe, my grandfather consoled
him with half-a-crown. The future Monsignor promptly
dried his tears, and remarked with smiling impudence that
he would always be glad to take another whipping for
another half-crown.

Though repugnant to our current feelings about infant
psychology and education, this sharp spiritual and physical
discipline was not followed by any evil consequences. The
children became neither prigs nor hypocrites. On the con
trary, they acquired a local repute for their keen wit, their
high spirits, their ready powers of versification, their acting
in charades, and their skill with their fingers. c The Holmeses
were not behind the door when tongues were served out'
was a label attached to them in their schooldays, and I
remember meeting a very old lady in a country house, who,
on hearing my name, asked me whether I was any connexion
of 'the three brilliant brothers, Herbert, Richard and poor
Charles' whom she had known at Highgatc fifty years
before. Clearly they were not much the worse for their
piety or the paternal cane.

My father's most conspicuous gift at this time was

6

768-1868] PROGENITORIAL

mechanical. He invented a steamboat which, with a
noble disregard for friction, was to utilize directly the thrust
of the piston; he was particularly noted for his skill with
the lathe, on which he turned small ivory boxes and cups
of singular fragile refinement. In common with his brothers
and sisters, he also showed some interest in art. From
childhood they had the run of the British Museum, and so
obtained a precocious familiarity with Illuminated MSS.
This dominated their early essays in painting, and left its
mark on the later work of the two elder brothers in a certain
dryness of style, which was reinforced by their enthusiasm
for the Pre-Raphaelite movement.

The boys went in due course to Highgate School, with
some of their Rivington cousins, and in the autumn of 1852
my father went up to Clare Hall, Cambridge. The Uni
versity Calendar for 1855 throws some light on his activities.
He was stroke of his College Boat in the Easter term of
1 854. In College cricket during the summer term his average
was 29, his best score being 59 against Corpus. Centuries
came less easily then. Only six higher scores than this were
made in all the matches which the Calendar records, and
the best of them is only 75, which happens to have been
made against my father's bowling. One curious custom
seems to have prevailed. Jesus had at this time a deadly
performer with the ball, and an excellent bat, named
Jiggins, who was a tower of strength in their College matches.
But in a Long Vacation match Jiggins reappears playing
for the College Servants and skittling out the 'Gentlemen. 5

Skating was, however, the accomplishment with which
my father's contemporaries all seem to have associated him
most definitely. His cousin, the late Canon Rivington, when
recalling this period many years later to my mother, writes :
'Charles, your dear husband, was a great admiration of
mine ... he was so extraordinarily clever, as all the
family were. His skating on the Hampstead Ponds was the
delight of many people. "Is Mr. Holmes coming down to
skate to-day? " they would ask. He was first in everything

7

SELF AND PARTNERS [768-1868

he attempted. I can also see him in a deep storm of snow,
catching sight of me as a small boy In one of the Hall
windows in our house at Hampstcad, and throwing a large
snowball which broke the window and scattered snow all
over me. Yes, my dear Mary, there were giants in the
Earth in those days.'

This fair promise was abruptly clouded. Just as my
father was making his little mark at Cambridge, and read
ing with a reasonable expectation of high honours, he was
recalled to London by a catastrophe my grandfather's
sudden death. John Holmes had never been of a saving
habit, and a reduction in expenditure was the first neces
sity, A council of Rivington uncles gathered to consider
the future of their sister and her family. The library went
in due course to Sotheby's; Richard was given a post in
the British Museum ; and, since Herbert's naval career could
not well be interrupted, my father's Cambridge degree
remained as the obvious sacrifice. He was notoriously clever
with his fingers; an apprenticeship to some watchmaker
would enable him in a short time to contribute something
to the family exchequer.

Though naturally conscientious, and feeling very deeply
his responsibility towards his widowed mother, my father
could not welcome this economic offer. He had set his
heart upon taking orders, and a share in the social move
ment which Kingsley and Maurice had started. This
intention, this calling, he would not abandon lightly. He
returned to Cambridge to consult his friends. They immedi
ately proved the sacrifice unnecessary, combining to make
him a loan whereby he could remain in residence for another
year, and take his degree without giving his uncles any
excuse for further benevolence. But the anxiety occasioned
by these domestic troubles handicapped, him fatally in the
Schools, and he had to be content with a place far lower
than his original hopes. 1

1 A curious fate still seems to pursue our family at the older Universities.
I was called away from Oxford in my third year. My brother died at Carn-

8

768-1868] PROGENITORIAL

To repay his friends was my father's next concern. With
that purpose, he spent two years in France, chiefly at Pont-
sur-Seine, as tutor to the young Casimir-Perier, who was
destined in after years to become President of the French
Republic. My father quickly identified himself with the
ways of this kindly and cultured French household: so
much so, that he seemed almost a complete Frenchman
when he came back to carry out his original purpose. The
period when he took orders in December 1857 was one of
considerable religious enthusiasm, and the uplifting of the
working classes by means of education and personal inter
course was the ideal of all thoughtful men. My father felt
that the East End of London was the proper sphere for him,
so in due course he became curate to the Rev. C. H. Carr,
vicar of St. John's, Limehouse. At Limehouse, in the
summer of 1858, he met one of the vicar's nieces, an attrac
tive girl of eighteen or nineteen, and since this Miss Dickson
is of some importance to this narrative, it may be well to
present her in proper form.

Mary Susan Dickson 1 was born at Preston in 1839.
Being the eldest of a large family, she soon had occasion to
exercise the rights of seniority in guiding and teaching her
juniors, and to learn household management. Beginning at

bridge in his second term. In the next generation, my elder son, just before
taking his final Schools, was run over by a motor-car, and put kors de combat,
so far as further reading went. Only my younger son, choosing London in
preference to Cambridge, had an uninterrupted University career.

1 Though claiming descent from the family of Keith, Earl Marischal, the
Lancashire branch of the Dickson family appears to have no recorded ancestor
before William Dickson (or Fraser?) who married one Elizabeth Bradkirk
in 1665. They used the arms of Dickson of Buhtrig, with the motto * Fortes
Fortuna juvat.' Lancashire at this time, and for another hundred and fifty
years, was more or less isolated from the Midlands and the South by the diffi
culty of crossing Chat Moss. The Dicksons were no more adventurous than
their neighbours. Acquiring some of the toughness and solidity of the boulder-
clay under their feet, they lived in and around Poulton-le-Fylde, where their
town house still stands in the market-place.

At the end of the eighteenth century, a faint breath of romance ripples
across this undistinguished trickle of descent, when Richard Dickson, the
surviving male representative of the family, married Margaret Briggs. Mar
garet's mother had been a Miss Sympson of Kendal. As a girl she had attended
the ball given in 1 745 by the town of Kendal to Prince Charles Edward and
his officers, and had the honour of dancing with the Prince. She lived till

SELF AND PARTNERS [768-1868

home with a governess, her education was continued, in less
orthodox fashion, at a private school where boys were in a
strong majority. On wet clays a four-whcclcr would call for
her, and then go round to collect the youngsters of the neigh
bouring families of Gorst and Hulton ; half-a-dozen or more
being often crowded into the ancient vehicle, among them
one who afterwards attained some prominence in politics as
Sir John Gorst. Her formal education was completed in
London at a finishing school in Westbourne Terrace, where
her provincial French accent and country-cut frocks caused
her some trying moments on her first arrival.

Visits to concerts and picture-galleries were part of the
London school programme, but not even Jenny Lind at the
height of her fame impressed my mother so profoundly as did
the sight of the East End of London. Her aunt, Diana
Swainson, had recently married the Rev, C. H. Garr, and
at their vicarage in Limehouse my mother became a frequent
visitor. She had seen much distress in Lancashire, but
the immensity of this London area, in which there seemed
to be no relief of any kind from monotonous squalor,
affected her deeply and permanently. On her return to
Preston, after leaving school, she soon began to interest
herself in teaching and visiting, principally among the
hand-loom weavers, although the management of a con-

the age of ninety-seven, and my grandfather Dickson, who hud often heard
her tell the story, repeated it to me when he introduced me to her two portraits,
one representing her at the end of her life, the other a Romney of the Kendal
period. This grandfather, Joseph Brigpj's JKekson, became a .solicitor of some
position in the county, while his younger brother, Thomas, took orders, and
settled in the family living of Kastehurch,

Hie brothers, Joseph and Thomas, married sisters, daughters of Anthony
Swainson of Liverpool, a descendant of the Christopher Swainson and Eliza
beth Lister whom we have heard of already in connexion with Charlemagne.
The Swairisons appear to have come from Stainforth, the hamlet perched so
picturesquely on the edge of Ribblehe.ad Moor. Roger Swaynson de Stayn-
forth (ob, 1610) is the first of whom I have note. From Stainforth the family
moved downstream to Gisburn, and thence scattered .southward to Preston
and Liverpool, intermarrying with Graindor^rn, Inmaus, Clays, Birleys,
llornbys, prospering as merchants, shipowners, manufacturers, landed
proprietors, and exhibiting a marked inclination towards divinity and scholar
ship. Of the marriage between Joseph Brings Dickson and Susanna Swainson,
my mother was the eldest child.

10

768-1868] PROGENITORIAL

siderable household and the demands of society could not
be disregarded.

An early photograph helps materially in reconstructing
this period of her life. It shows that she was exceedingly
handsome, the face a regular oval, the expression thoughtful
and serene, with just so much liveliness about the eyes and
mouth as to challenge attention. And she received it in
plenty. From the moment that she left school, her good
looks, her good sense, her spirit and her skill as an archer
brought her many admirers.

Though she had met her uncle's curate at Limehouse in
1858, their interest in each other had not been strong enough
to produce a continuance of the acquaintance. On a further
visit to Limehouse, the attraction became much more power
ful, but my father, having no immediate prospect of prefer
ment, was compelled to silence, and to allowing things in
the North to take their chance. Whether by accident or by
design, he found one means of keeping himself in mind. He
started producing the ' St. John's, Limehouse, Parish Paper,'
and sent a copy of each number to Preston. This method of
communication was probably less unpromising than it
sounds. I have no knowledge of the history of parochial
journalism, but imagine that, in 1860, any such publica
tion must have been a novelty. And the St. John's
Parish Paper was more than a novelty. It was prob
ably unique. My father was editor, chief contributor,
compositor, printer, publisher, and, with help from his
brothers, more particularly my uncle Richard, its illustrator
as well.

This forgotten pioneer among such publications deserves
a little notice to itself. The conception was my father's. To
realize it he borrowed a hand-press and a quantity of dis
carded type from his uncle, William Rivington, the friendly
head of the Gilbert and Rivington firm. He taught himself
wood-engraving and lithography, so that each number
might be embellished with a double-page plate in addition
to the letterpress. With his own hand he set all the type,

ii

SELF AND PARTNERS [768-1868

and printed every sheet and every picture, in his lodgings
at Nos. 2 and 3 Aston Street.

The inspiration of the pictures, where they are not severely
practical, is Pre-Raphaelite, coupled with memories of
Illuminated MSS. The best of them are the headpiece and
tailpiece (February 1860) by my uncle Richard to Tenny
son's 'Home they brought her warrior dead.' Though
accompanied by somewhat trivial initials and scrollwork,
the former might well have come from the hands of Miss
Siddal, the latter from Rossetti himself. My father's illus
trations are generally more practical : woodcuts of the
church, and a map of the parish printed in gold ; lithographs
of the Union Jack and its components, of University gowns
and hoods, all coloured by hand (how that curate must
have worked !), a large plate of the St. John's School Festival
in Petersham Park (quaintly successful in spite of the im
possible subject), and in December 1861 another Christmas
Carol, printed in brown and gold, and decorated in twelfth-
century style with an admirable foliated border. In this,
his lithographic swan-song, rny father attains a first-class
professional standard both as a designer and an executant.

The Paper, a small quarto measuring 8 in. by 5! in.,
f ran ' for two years, beginning in January 1 860 and ending
ia December 1861. The effective cover and some of the
contents are printed in red and black during 1860. In 1861
the red is used more sparingly; the volume contains only
nine numbers instead of the ten for 1 860, as if the strain on
the editor's powers were beginning to tell, and the December
issue contains the notice, 'The Editor of the Parish Paper
is obliged by his health to discontinue printing the Paper,
at least for the present.' It was a time of universal distress.
Smallpox was rife, and my father, in combating the troubles
around him, at last overtaxed his strength, contracting the
disease so severely that he was never the same man again,
either in constitution or in appearance.

Miss Dickson all this while remained invisible, if not inac
cessible. My father had stayed with some of her people in

12

I r Y fa T"7pr" IP- 4 ^

pie a miudeirfrom Her place,
Lightly to the carrier slept,
look the face-doth from the face
, Yet she never moved nor wept.

a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee-
Like summer tempest came her
" Sweet my child, I live for tM"

A PAGE FROM THE PARISH PAPER

OF ST. JOHN'S, L1MEHOUSE FIELDS, February, 1860

Edited and produced by my father, when curate

768-1868] ' PROGENITORIAL

Liverpool, and had even made a flying visit to Preston,
en route for a holiday chaplaincy; but had no luck. He was
merely able to make a sketch of what he thought to be the
house; and sketched the wrong one. However, in July
1862, Miss Dickson came up to London with her mother to
see the Great Exhibition. In the Exhibition they met Mr,
Carr with another clergyman who said, * Well, Miss Dickson !

\$Don't you remember me? ' It was my father, so changed by
illness that she had failed to recognize him. The check was
but momentary. On the following day they became engaged.

r* Almost immediately they were compelled to separate. My

IJfather was due at Dumcrieff as holiday chaplain to Lord
Rollo, while my mother was witnessing the building of

Ov blockade-runners on the Ribble and the semi-starvation
/j brought about by the Lancashire cotton famine. When in

the spring of 1863 the first bales of cotton reached Leyland
a few miles away, the jubilant mill-workers joined hands
and danced around them singing the Doxology.

^ My father, meanwhile, being anxious to obtain more

<4~lucrative work, accepted the post of Vice-Principal of the
Training College for Schoolmasters at Culham. It proved

^ neither comfortable nor congenial. *I shouldn't do for a

^schoolmaster, ' he writes, 'even if I didn't detest the business,
which I do. I feel quite competent to undertake a parish,
but I don't feel equal to undertaking the board and lodging,
on the most economical principles, of nearly 100 people. 5
e resigned at the end of six months to go to St. Botolph's,

^Bishopsgate, as curate to the Rev. W. (Hang Theology!)
Rogers.

It was a novel experience, for the parish was chiefly
inhabited by Jews. He was thus enabled to witness the
keeping of the Feast of Tabernacles in the back yard next
to his own lodgings, roofed over for the occasion with boughs.
He had one less agreeable experience. The house in which
he lived was found to be on fire, and my father, at some
personal risk, extinguished the flames with his own sheets
and blankets. Far from getting any thanks, he merely sacri-

13

SELF AND PARTNERS [768-1868

ficed his bed-linen; for the landlord himself had set the
place alight to get the insurance money.

At this time St. George's in the East, already of evil
repute among waterside districts, became notorious on
account of the riots occasioned, ostensibly, by the ritualistic
practices of the Rev. Bryan King. While an exchange of
livings was being arranged, my father was asked by Dr. Tait,
then Bishop of London, to take charge of this troubled parish.
There he spent the early part of 1 864, among the sailors and
the harpies who preyed upon them, before Father Lowder
and his colleagues took the place in hand.

Finally, the offer of the new Mission District of St.
Michael's, Bromley-by-Bow, enabled my parents to look
forward to marriage at an early date. It foreshadowed also
immense responsibilities. The stipend was very small, the
inhabitants of the parish numbered more than 25,000, the
majority being exceedingly poor and dependent upon casual
labour. The wealthiest were artisans and small shopkeepers.
The only approach to parochial buildings or machinery was
a good Boys 3 School, which could be used for services on
Sunday. No house of any kind in the whole parish was
obtainable for the vicar, until a Mr. C., who had taken a
great interest in the Schools, placed one at ray father's
disposal.

The new venture met with no approbation from his family.
e l believe/ he writes in July, 'that my marriage is looked
upon by my uncles (for I have no relations on my father's
side but cousins whom I never see) as too impudent to be
encouraged/ and there was some doubt at first as to the
place of the wedding. The Parish Church at Preston was
then the only church in that town of 90,000 inhabitants
where weddings were permitted. But an old custom of
throwing money on leaving the church, which caused the
assembly of a rabble, had caused my mother to dread the
ceremony there, so the wedding ultimately took place, in
August 1864, at the little country church of Thornton, near
Rossall. A fortnight later the couple started life at Bromley.

14

768-1868] PROGENITORIAL

The house which had been lent to them proved to be
fairly good, but it was on the brink of Limehouse Cut. Into
that stagnant stretch of water, industrial effluents poured
regularly. The smells were abominable, and the chemical
emanations, as the new-comers soon discovered, were so
potent as to corrode all the metalwork in the place. But
they were full of hopes for the future. Before September was
over, the foundation stone of a church was laid amid general
enthusiasm. In October a second foundation, of a School-
Church, prepared the way for a mission district, called St.
Gabriel, whereby their unwieldy parish would be reduced
from 25,000 to 19,000.

All continued to go well until the following summer (1865),
when the bad air proved too much for my mother. She
struggled on until the Church was consecrated in August,
and then went north to recover from blood-poisoning.
Immediately afterwards my father was attacked with some
thing akin to typhoid fever, and it became evident that they
could no longer safely live and work in the house which had
been lent to them. There were other reasons for leaving it.
The owner, now my father's first churchwarden, had given
much help to the Schools, and had promised still more
towards the Church, for he was a wealthy man. But the
price for his help, as the months went by, increased until it
became complete parochial control. The vicar he hoped
would still c be his right hand.' My father endured, until
the churchwarden also claimed the management of the Boys'
School. This could not be granted. Mr. C. thereupon with
drew all the financial support he had promised, and my father
was only able to make good the resulting deficit on Church
and Schools by sacrificing the whole of his small patrimony.

Since no other house could be found in their own parish,
it was now necessary for my parents to live in Poplar. Then
came fresh troubles. They had just started for a summer
holiday in 1866, when cholera broke out in the parish.
My father returned to his post at once, my mother followed
soon. Then with a plucky curate, Mr. H. D. Moore, and

15

SELF AND PARTNERS [768-1868

the parish doctor, who after a month or two fell a victim to
the disease, they worked night and day to relieve the
sufferers. The extent of their labours was considerably
increased by the flight, in terror, of another curate. Not
until the epidemic was practically over could my father's
remonstrances recall him to his duty, and to an ironic
recompense. His sermon, 'Thankfulness for the Departure
of Cholera from the District, 3 was preached with such heart
felt conviction that his hearers presented him with a clock.

The effect of the strain upon those who had stood their
ground was soon apparent. My mother was taken seriously
ill after the arrival of a still-born child, and while she was
recruiting at Hastings it was noticed that my father had
developed a hacking cough. This was dismissed by the new
Bromley doctor as mere c clergyman's throat,' so the vicar
worked on, though in constant pain, through the long and
snowy winter, the calls upon him being specially heavy
owing to widespread industrial distress.

The outspoken gratitude of his parishioners was some
recompense ; the completion of a new vicarage in the spring
of 1867 promised to save him some fatigue, though the
damp walls did the cough no good. His overworked con
dition was evident; he was ordered a rest, but Fate once
more was against him. Leaving hot weather in London, he
went to Alloa to take Sunday duty for a few weeks. He
found the place under snow, and the bitter cold continued
during the whole of his stay, giving him no respite from his
throat trouble. Nevertheless the parish continued to prosper
so wonderfully that the vicar and his wife were almost afraid
of their good fortune : it seemed too good to last.

At the London Hospital, some years before, my father had
made the acquaintance of a young doctor, Morell Mackenzie,
who had since then made a name for himself by his skill with
the laryngoscope. Hearing from a friend of my father's ill-
health, Mackenzie begged him to call My father did so,
and the trouble was instantly diagnosed as tuberculous, a
verdict which a second specialist confirmed. The work to

16

768-1868] PROGENITORIAL

which he had devoted his life was to be stopped at once;
London was to be left for good, and the winter, if not all
succeeding winters, was to be spent in a warmer climate.

Against such a sentence there could be no appeal. Funds
had to be scraped together, and arrangements made for the
charge of the parish ; but friends were kind, and early in
October the pair were able to leave for the Riviera. The
Casimir-Perier family met them en route, doing what they
could to make the journey comfortable, so that the invalid
reached Mentone without any relapse. There he seemed to
benefit so greatly by the change that plans were made for
the winter of the following year. He was able, too, for the
first time in his life, to indulge himself in sketching, and the
water-colours he made at this period are my earliest artistic
recollections.

Their schemes for the future were suddenly upset by a
suggestion from the Bishop of London that my father should
exchange the Bromley living for the chaplaincy at Funchal.
In that favoured climate, even if the disease were not com
pletely cured, its advance could be stayed indefinitely. My
mother accordingly hastened back to England to meet the
Madeira chaplain and introduce him to Bromley. Frightened
at first by the immensity of the parish, he was reassured by
its good condition and organization. He agreed to the
exchange, so my father, resigning the holiday chaplaincy at
Villeneuve which he had undertaken, came back to England.
Outfits for Madeira were procured, and farewell visits were
paid to the parish and people of Bromley. Then, at the very
last moment, the Madeira chaplain changed his mind, and
my parents found themselves homeless.

They could not possibly return to Bromley ; my mother's
state of health, at the moment, made the long journey to
Mentone (part of it still by diligence} no less impossible ; my
father would not and could not go without her. Finally it
was arranged that he should winter at Flushing in Cornwall,
my mother remaining with her parents at Preston, where, on
November nth 1868, I thus happened to be born.

CHAPTER II

CHILDHOOD

(1868-1877)

Wanderings in Cornwall; Stratton; Dr. Temple; fancies of
childhood; my father's death; life at Bude; at Preston; at
Awliscombe ; ' Aladdin ' ; first ideas of landscape ; school at
BudJeigh and Ottery St. Mary; we move to Preston.

I WAS barely a month old when my wanderings began. It
was essential that my mother should rejoin my father at the
earliest moment possible. So on December iGth, four days
after I had been christened in queer little pseudo-Norman
Christ Church at Preston, I was conveyed to Cornwall. At
Flushing, with an invalid husband and a tiny baby on her
hands, my mother was fully occupied ; yet all went well so
long as faithful old Anne, who had been nurse to the whole
Dickson tribe, remained there to look after me. But Anne
was soon required at Preston, and with her recall troubles
immediately started. Her place was taken by one Elizabeth
Mutton, whose name I have learned to execrate. Neglected,
I became fretful ; then to soothe and conceal the fretfulness
I was drugged. Just before it was too late the cause of the
trouble was found out and dismissed, but my mother was
left to watch me day and night, preparing every scrap of
food, in addition to tending rny father, since no reliable
nurse could be had in Falmouth, At last there was dis
covered in Truro the good Elizabeth Simcox, to whose care
I could safely be left.

Then we moved to the Lizard in search of more bracing
air for my father. He soon made friends with the artists
resident there, but unhappily took a chill while sketching
at Mullion. Pleurisy followed, and he would have died
before a doctor could be fetched from a distance but for

18

1868-1877] CHILDHOOD

some prompt and homely remedies applied by my mother.
When the doctor did at last arrive, he proved to be drunk.
Clearly a move would have to be made promptly to some
place where proper treatment was available, and in the
midst of this anxiety there came a letter from Bromley to
say that the curate-in-charge had broken down, and must
be relieved of his duties at once.

Temporary shelter for the two invalids was offered by our
Chappell cousins at Camborne; from Camborne we all
moved on again to lodgings in Truro, where a capable doctor
took the ailing baby in hand. My mother and father mean
while were writing hither and thither to find a fresh curate
for the Bromley Parish. A chance postscript to a letter
mentioned that the vicar of Stratton in Cornwall wished to
exchange it for a living in London. The income of Stratton
was even smaller than that of Bromley, and uncertain too ;
the vicarage was shockingly out of repair, with nothing
available for dilapidations; our family finance was on its
last legs. But the air of Stratton promised well for the
invalid, so the exchange was agreed ; the vicar stipulating
that the news was not to be made public. While my mother
went up to London to make a final settlement there, father,
nurse and baby moved to Bude, where my mother rejoined
them. The following day (August 4th 1869) happening to
be the anniversary of their wedding-day, my parents thought
they would walk over quietly to Stratton to attend matins.
The church bell was ringing as they climbed the village
street, but at the top they were met by the news that the
vicar had left the place, and that there was nobody to take
the service. In this unexpected fashion my father restarted
parochial work.

Even then, though in occupation of the living, he could
not be formally instituted. The See of Exeter was vacant,
and it was not until December, when Dr. Temple had been
appointed, that my father became vicar de jure. Few
episcopal appointments have aroused such an outcry. The
peremptory decisions of a Rugby headmaster fell heavily

SELF AND PARTNERS [1868-1877

upon those accustomed to more conventional prelates, whose
ways, ifnotfortiter in re, were invariably suaviter in rnodo. His
reputed conversational formula, 'What d'ye want? Naow,
Good marninY reflects the opinion then current in the
county; an opinion which his power, courage, honesty and
judgment gradually changed to respectful affection. Our
experience I may now begin to use the first person was
inyariably pleasant. From the very beginning the Bishop
was a good friend to the little household at Stratton, and a
welcome guest. Indeed, one of my earliest memories is con
nected with a visit from him, when he proved himself quite
unlike the ogre of diocesan gossip.

In the early part of 1871, being little more than two ycais
old, I was allowed, as a great treat, to sit opposite to Dr.
Temple at our midday dinner. His mighty build, his dress
(particularly the gaiters), and the awe with which his
presence had inspired my nurse, s,o excited me that Iwas
taken ill at the apple-tart stage, and was removed from the
table weeping. Somewhat later, in a clean pinafore, I was
allowed to come down again to the drawing-room, where, to
turn my sorrows into joy, I was not only encouraged to
examine and touch the fascinating gaiters, but was offered
a ride round the room. Down went the Bishop on hands
and knees and bore me all over the carpet, enchanted, yet
a little frightened too, for my baby legs could get no proper
grip on that massive back, and I had to hold on anyhow.

My second birthday is no less distinct in memory, for then,
while setting out the animals from a new and sumptuous
Noah's Ark (it long remained a sort of family heirloom), I
fell down on top of the Red-deer. One of his horns ran into
my forehead between the eyes, making a wound which
covered my blue frock with blood, and left a scar that was
only effaced by the wrinkles of middle age. My yells could
not be quieted until our masterful doctor, John King, by
arranging plaster over the wound in the form of the Union
Jack, reconciled me to fortitude as being now an English
soldier.

1868-1877] CHILDHOOD

The advantages of living in the country soon became
evident. It was healthy and delightful for an inquisitive
little boy, and convenient for his parents, since it enabled
them to be rid of him for hours together. They needed the
relief. While I was just beginning to trot about the vicarage
garden, to explore the field and orchard below, and to make
acquaintance with the Stratton neighbourhood under my
nurse's eye, my mother was far less happily occupied.
Though there were short periods of improvement in my
father's health, he always needed great care, and when,
with the advance of the disease, his pain and weakness
increased, my mother, in addition to her household and
parochial duties, had to be day-nurse and night-nurse in
one. Of this ever-deepening shadow in the background of
life I was not wholly unconscious, but I was too young to
comprehend the anxiety which so often kept the house rest
less and quiet. My delicacy and my inclination called for
fresh air, and the privilege of rambling in the open was
accorded the more liberally since it kept my noise and
chatter out of the way. Even my nurse had another to
think about after March 1871, when my younger brother
Frank was born.

My solitary adventures began, of course, with the vicarage
garden, or gardens, for the lawn and trees at one end of the
house had an extension among flower-beds along all one
face of it, which passed round a corner into a kitchen-garden*
This was of fair size with fruit-trees trained all over the
walls; sea-kale (?) growing under great mysterious inverted
pots of shiny brown earthenware ; and an opening to the
left, flanked in those days with bushy white-grape vines,
through which one descended to the moisture and shade of
the orchard. To the left of the orchard was the field, equally
moist, in which were held the school treats, when we drank
tea out of queer mugs, and stuffed down heavy cake. Along
the foot of field and orchard ran Water Lane, wherein, under
an arch of greenery, a rivulet ran merrily over the squashy
gravel down to Stratton and the unknown, For me that

21

SELF AND PARTNERS [1868-1877

water held some peculiar magic. It recurred for years in
my dreams, glorified and enlarged at last into a veritable
glassy trout-stream, so that there was some disenchantment
when I revisited the place in later days to find a mere trickle,
and that not over-clean.

Provided with a little garden of my own at the end of the
lawn, I duly planted seeds. Some* black ones with red spots
were so pleasing to the eye that it was necessary to see how
they would germinate. Every few days, therefore, I dug
them up to note progress. There appeared to be none.
When the defects of the practice were finally explained, I
decided that gardening was too slow for me, and let the
plot revert to weeds and dust. There were more interesting
things to investigate.

Against the wall, by the carriage entrance, between two
elms, which then seemed gigantic, was a heap of gravel
sprawling out untidily towards the lawn. Heie was a plain
opportunity for virtue. Fetching my little spade and bucket,
I determined to put that gravel into its place. At first I
scraped from the edge, and took the bucketfuls methodically
to the top of the heap. Though I persevered, it would run
down again. Finally I concluded that only by speed and
force could the obstinate little pebbles be coerced into piling
themselves steeply up the wall. So frantically and fiercely
did I shovel, that the noise at last alarmed the house. My
nurse ran out to find me panting and dishevelled, with that
wretched heap of gravel crumbling down again to its original
objectionable form.

Another misconception led to more shameful consequences.
On a visit to Bude, Mr. Dudley Mills had entertained me
with some dainty little model boats, three or four inches
long. The neatest of them all was made of rosewood, so I
was told. There were roses in the garden at home, so I de
termined to make a similar little boat for myself. Selecting,
therefore, the rose with the stoutest stem, I procured (how
I know not) a table-knife, and managed to hack it down.
The thorns pricked my fingers, but I duly trimmed the

22

1868-1877] CHILDHOOD

branches, and proceeded to sharpen the two ends of the
stem (it was about a foot long) into a crude resemblance
to bow and stern. Only at this stage did it suddenly begin
to dawn upon me that there was something radically wrong,
and that by no human possibility could my miserable pointed
green stick, with the bark and thorn-stubs still apparent, be
transmuted into a trim little craft like the one I had seen
at Bude.

These moments of doubt, disquiet, disillusion, were cut
short by the tea-bell. From the corner I had chosen for the
great experiment I could see guests around the flower-beds,
so I slipped in by another door, dropping my dreadful pro
duct by the wall as I passed. When washed and made ready
I descended to the drawing-room, to find that the talk was
all about the strange destruction of some precious rose-bush,
a particular favourite of my father's. I was too tiny to be
suspect. But I was not at that time a liar, so promptly
confessed c I done it/ producing the contemptible evidence
of my delusion and failure from the flower-bed just outside.
It says much for my parents 3 forbearance that I escaped with
a gentle scolding, and an injunction not to try such things
again without asking permission. Indeed, during these years
at Stratton I can remember only one occasion on which I
came in for corporal punishment at my parents' hands, and
that amounted only to a careful box on the ear from rny
father for trespassing into the one place specifically forbidden
to me his workshop. Even then I was more terrified by
his sudden appearance, his long dark beard, and the feel of
his wasted white hand, than I was hurt by the blow. This
moderation was the more notable because I developed mis
chievous habits turning on surreptitiously all the taps (taps
were an endless attraction) at the wine and spirit merchant's
while my nurse was giving an order, or popping my baby
brother back into his bath, when he had just been got ready
in muslin and ribbons to be displayed downstairs.

My parents, if I may judge from their letters, took these
misdemeanours less seriously than I was apt to do myself,

23

SELF AND PARTNERS [1868-1877

Perhaps the rigorous discipline of my father's boyhood made
him resolve that his own children should have an easier start
in life. I always regarded him with awe, yet my sense of
his forbearing and humour deepens with every scrap of
information about him that I unearth. Before I was a year
old, I find him writing of me : * Now that he can crawl
anywhere he tries to get into all manner of mischief. The
other day he was brought up into my workshop to be out
of the way and was highly delighted to watch me out of
an empty clothes-basket into which he was popped for
safety, see below.' The appended sketch shows my head
and ears projecting over the rim of the basket, the eyes bent
critically upon my father's lathe, which now, more than
sixty years later, is used by his grandson.

'Peter Parley' in a red cover, and some other work on
life in India, were the first books (excepting the inevitable
'Agathos') which impressed me. The stories about poison
ous snakes, and of crocodiles emerging from the mud to
eat the natives as they slept, surrounded my nightly couch
with horrors. I could not put down my feet between the
sheets without a shudder lest a kerait or cobra should be
there; if there was a sound by the foot of the bed, was it a
crocodile come to look for me? The snake-terror lasted for
some time, being emphasized by a curious incident.

My father's curate, afterwards Canon Bone, was even then
a valued friend. He lived a little way off. As I was going
to tea with him one day, accompanied by my nurse and
little brother in the perambulator, down a lane splendid with
ragged-robin, a snake appeared in the middle of the road.
My faithful nurse for the moment lost her head, retreated,
and left the perambulator to its fate. Picking up a stone, I
cast it with the puny effort of a three-year-old, and by some
curious fluke hit the unlucky creature so that it was cut into
two writhing pieces. I have wondered since whether it may
not have been a harmless slow- worm, dividing itself in panic.
The writhing movement, however, has stayed in my head
ever since, and the fright it then gave me was accentuated

24

^7T^*^_-**ggE <L

/^- * /\

MYSELF IN 1869
Drawn by my father.

1868-1877] CHILDHOOD

a few minutes later when we turned up to Mr. Bone's house
and his two black retrievers rushed out barking and jumping
around us. Not even an excellent tea and new picture-books
could restore my shattered courage.

One Other memory of this period puzzles me still. It was
a dream, of which the main features recurred and persisted
for several years. The scene was invariably a rough swampy
moorland under a cloudy sky. It was a billowy region of
considerable extent, covered with long tufts of yellow-gray
grasses, and swept perpetually by a wind which had bent
and dwarfed the ragged scraps of woodland that huddled
here and there by the hollows. To this moor I came again
and again with singular exhilaration, as the leader who was
galloping, galloping, on a shaggy, mud-coloured pony, to
reach his men and lead them against the enemy for some
critical fight. Both groups, they may have numbered two
or three hundred in all, were mounted much as I was ; their
weapons, the sword or a short rough lance. The fight began
with a charge on our part down a slope, continuing hand-to-
hand, and without definite detail, until the enemy were
swept away. That achieved, our company galloped off to
the left, and apparently westward, of the direction from
which I had started. In the evening we reached a rude
little stone church among trees, overlooking the moor, and
there, to round off the romantic adventure, I was married
to somebody or other, never distinctly apprehended, but
THE right person anyhow.

Like other private fancies of childhood, the whole thing
seemed too sacred to talk about, as well as being too senti
mental. But I have not been able to trace the source of that
vivid imagery. I had seen no such northern or other moor
land ; I was more frightened than happy when set on a real
horse, and had heard nothing of Border forays, of which the
dream seemed to be a dim reflection. On my fourth birth
day, it is true, my uncle Richard gave me a book 'The
Adventures of St. George,' the text poor stuff, but with
engravings after Gustave Dore. Here ? indeed, there are

25

SELF AND PARTNERS [1868-1877

fighting knights, wild woodlands, and even a little forest
chantry, yet I cannot make them fit the quite different
period, terrain, and people of my particular romance. I
suppose such fancies are common enough, and that, as in
the Kipling story, some ancestral adventure may occasion
ally rouse a shadowy reflection in a descendant centuries
afterwards, before the intimations of childhood have faded
in the light of common day.

My father all this time had been growing weaker and
weaker, suffering constant pain and distress which even
morphia could not always relieve. My mother was almost
worn out by continual attendance to his needs. In this
extremity it became essential to keep me out of the house as
much as possible, so I was taken down every morning, for
an hour or two, to the Stratton National School. There my
tendency to shirk the labour of reading for myself was
promptly corrected by a box on the ear from the school
master, one which really hurt. Though this teaching lasted
only a few weeks, I -emerged from it with the power to spell
out any simple sentence, and am glad to remember that
the improvement pleased my father, for he mentions it in
his last feeble pencil note. ' It is no dark sea or river that
I look to, but rest, sleep and joyful resurrection' are the
words with which the letter closes. A few days later (May
22nd 1873) he was released by death from sufferings which
had become almost intolerable.

In due course we had to leave Stratton, the rambling old
vicarage and noble church, now in charge of Mr. Bone, who
had succeeded my father as vicar; our kind friends the
Kings ; the hearmes ; the Rowes, with their fragrant wall
flowers and little cannon; the brothers Crutchett; Mr.
Saunders the shoemaker at the foot of the hill, father of
Charles Saunders the tenor ; the top-hatted policeman, and
many others; the over-shadowed slope above the cottage
hospital, the very place, in my fancy, for the dragon to
spring out upon Agathos ; the turning to Binnamy where the
Trewins used to give us tea and pasties, damp delicious

26

1868-1877] CHILDHOOD

farm-house bread and vast red-cheeked apples, and pass
along the road to Bude with its humming telegraph poles,
to Bude, which then seemed only a humble but refreshing
suburb to Stratton. It lacked even a local totem. Strat-
tonians were mice ; the folk of Marhamchurch were owls :
of Poughill, geese ; but of Bude, nothing.

Our house in Summerleaze Terrace overlooked the little
estuary and straggling town. A minute's walk to the right,
or to the back, transferred us across shoe-filling sand to the
open downs, then undisturbed by anything worse than a
green cricket-pavilion, fragrant withi the scent of the short
turf and of the sea, sun-bathed, wind-swept, variegated by
the passing of fair ladies with Dolly Varden hats (so my
nurse told me) perched on their piled chignons, and opening
out on the landward side towards a then mysterious hinter
land. The path to it began among flaming, towering
scarlet-runners, but branched this way and that to shady
lanes, and mills with huge, mossy waterwheels, half sunk in
earth (like the millstone-milestone on the direct track to
Stratton) and with little visible means of subsistence in the
shape of running water.

Turning downhill from the house we could soon reach the
footbridge over the tidal-stream, with Cobbledick the baker's
shop, and the salt mud-flats round the castle. Beyond lay
the canal-bridge, the house for the lifeboat (looking as vast
as a liner on its wheeled carriage), and then, to the right,
the ever-fascinating walk by the canal, past the Acland's
sunken house, to the tumbling sea, the breakwater and the
Chapel Rock. The rock-pools were then living gardens of
indescribable beauty, being as yet undiscovered and unrifled
of their jewels by the devotees of that Azrael of marine
zoology, Mr. Philip Gosse. To explore, slipping, splashing,
and tumbling, the vales and ridges of this exquisite low-tide
lakeland, was far more exciting than any building of sand
castles on the opposite shore.

Possibly it was there that the existence offish dawned upon
us : the black canal hard by certainly provided the impulse

27

SELF AND PARTNERS [1868-1877

to angle for them, in the shape of a rod projecting from the
deck of one of the colliers by the wharf-side. 'May we
fish?' was the immediate demand of two little toddlers in
black frocks, one of them hardly out of the perambulator
stage. Pea-sticks, black cotton, bent pins, and cubes of
bread as big as lumps of sugar, were produced by our re
sourceful nurse ; tackle which even then seemed inadequate
to one ungrateful recipient. It certainly failed to tempt
the dace and eels in those inky deeps, and some years had
to pass before the instinct to angle had a fair chance of
developing.

On the hill .beyond the canal, the coastguard station,
known to us as 'The Storm Tower, 5 with the great cliffs
dropping down from it, and an occasional rather terrifying
and explosive practice with the rocket-apparatus, provided
more lasting attractions but not the supreme thrill That
was at Efford Down, the house of Mr. and Mrs. Arthur Mills,
who had been good friends to us all. The very approach to
it was delightful, by low walls crowned with tamarisk,
which seemed to have a faint fresh fragrance of its own if
you plunged your face well into it. Enchanting too was the
house itself, with the lion- and tiger-skins all over the
slippery polished floors, its genial imposing owners and their
sons (we were always a little afraid of Barton), who gave us
the run of the place and the gardens. It was in the gardens
that the magic centred for there underground reservoirs
lay hidden. Pipes and pumps connected them. After
pumping vigorously for a minute or so at one pleasing and
easy pump, a short run to a low door in the hillside gave
access to the edge of a dark cavern below, into which a
stream of water was plunging. The trouble came when it
was discovered that you had thus cut off the water-supply
from the house, and had, as a matter of common courtesy
rather than a punishment, to pump it all back again uphill,
with a much stiffer pump, and no subterranean visions to
relieve the monotonous arm-work.

My father's long illness had not only impaired my mother's

28

1868-1877] CHILDHOOD

health (she was never really strong again), but had also left
her with grave anxieties about finance. With her customary
enterprise, she set about making ends meet by'taking in an
invalid lady and her nurse. The lady soon proved to be a
mental case ; the nurse to be incompetent. My mother, in
consequence, was once more loaded with a double responsi
bility, but her influence on the patient was so beneficial that
she was encouraged to persevere. Then arose fresh com
plications, the issue being decided, in some measure, by the
fact that I was getting out of hand. It became advisable to
change our quarters, after having a good holiday with my
grandparents at Preston. Permanent residence in the North,
we were advised, was not yet safe for any of us, owing to the
nature of my father's illness, and its possible after-conse
quences.

So in the summer of 1874 we came, on a visit, to Preston
and to a new range of sensations. Bude had been some
thirty miles from any railway ; at Preston railways were an
accessible, an unavoidable, attraction. Whether the trains
passed in thunder over great trembling bridges, or vanished
under them in spouts and billows of smoke the very smell
of it was often pleasant, their evident irresistible momentum
inspired a half-terror that was all delight. The house, too,
under the rule of my gentle grandmother, whose lightest
word was obeyed without question by all, held creature-
comforts and surprising features which I was afterwards to
know much better, but which even then were dimly appre
hended. Its wise mistress saw at once that I needed some
discipline, so I was presently sent off every morning to a
little school. There, for a few weeks, under the stern eyes
of Miss Goodwyn, and the gentler ones of her sister, I was
initiated by Pinnock's little books into the mysteries of
English and Roman History, learning also to do sums and
to draw railway trains on a slate.

My conduct in the house was doubly regulated : directly
by old Anne, who, having brought up nine members of the
previous generation, was not one to stand any nonsense

29

SELF AND PARTNERS [1868-1877

from the next ; indirectly by a diplomatic promise from my
grandmother that when we had been good boys for thirty
days, we should each of us> be given anything that we liked
to ask for. My brother, b,eing still little more than a baby,
and a very good baby, earned his reward promptly. Choos
ing a box of soldiers, he received one about two feet square.
Fired by this example, I too did my best ; yet it was only
at the very end of my stay, and with some allowance for
minor misdeeds, that I struggled through to my great oppor
tunity. Alas ! I had recently been introduced by my uncle
Edmund to the secrets of the garden and the greenhouse.
Seduced by their momentary glamour, I chose of all things
a garden-syringe.

When my mother's health had improved with rest and
care, my grandmother travelled with her to Devonshire in
search of another house. As they were returning in despair
from one of many unsuccessful inspections, the driver of
their carriage asked if they had seen Awliscombe Vicarage,
near Honiton, and offered to take them there. On the road
they met the vicar riding by. Introducing themselves, they
found him no less accommodating in his terms than the
house proved to be desirable, so the affair was settled at
once. To Awliscombe Vicarage, accordingly, we came in
September 1874.

It proved a delightful place for us all. A long, rambling,
thatched and gabled house, between two gardens, with a
third for vegetables on the hill behind, a greenhouse with
excellent peaches, stables and a coach-house, a barn and
pig-sties, at a rent of thirty pounds a year, were obvious
merits. Others, less obvious, soon became apparent. The
people round, being uniformly and exceptionally pleasant,
provided my mother with congenial society. We boys, when
our lessons were done, were free to run about as we pleased.

The adventures of the next twelve months made 1875 seem
the longest and most eventful year in my life. One of the
two spinneys in the large garden abutted on the sunken road.
From it we conducted an intermittent war, by stone-

30

1868-1877] CHILDHOOD

throwing, against the boys in the farm across the way. The
other spinney contained much larger trees, their trunks
deliciously sticky with turpentine. A small cave dug in the
bank below formed our Museum, the principal treasure
being a dried viper, killed by the haymakers in the grass
just above. We soon learned to climb the firs, and to swing
and sing in the wind at the top, overlooking the entire
neighbourhood, and being all the while invisible and immune
if danger threatened. Later we learned to scale even the
ridge of the vicarage roof, and terrified the cook and house
maid by shouting ' Boo ' down the kitchen chimney. At the
back gate stood the witch's cottage. Her daughter Penelope
brought the milk every day : the witch herself regaled us
with dandelion wine, an astringent yellow liqueur which I
have not tasted elsewhere. The little stream close by intro
duced us to miller's thumbs, and to experiments in aqueous
engineering which proved rather costly.

Still more costly was an experiment in the art of war.
One Sunday, at my Budleigh school, I heard an impressive
account of the siege of Jerusalem, and of the great battering-
ram by which the Romans finally breached the wall. 'At
the first blow, the whole city shook.' Some fir-poles lay in
the barn-yard at Awliscombe. Would they produce a
similar effect? We found one which we could just lift, so
trotting with it across the yard we directed the butt at the
corner of the barn. Our hands got sadly jarred, but we
continued the process, encouraged by the sight of a little
dust which was shaken out from the mortar. A brick
visibly loosened, and thenceforth progress was rapid. By
the time of our midday dinner the whole corner of the
barn had become a gaping hollow a convincing proof that
history was really true.

A visit to London in the winter of 1874 enlarged our
knowledge of the world. For me at least, the delights of
the Zoo were eclipsed by the sight of the Regent's Canal,
just after the great explosion, with the shattered houses all
along the banks roofed and shrouded in tarpaulin. I

SELF AND PARTNERS [1868-1877

remember, too, an old clergyman's story. Awakened at
the dead of night by that sudden appalling shock and
detonation, which unroofed buildings and blew in window-
frames far away from the unlucky powder-barge, he found
himself saying to his terrified wife, c I think, my dear, it
must be the Day of Judgment.'

An exquisite calves'-foot jelly at a children's party, and
Aladdin at Drury Lane, are other memories of that visit.
I already knew the Aladdin story, and the Houghton illus
trations, so found it hard to accept as a legitimate part of it
a procession of the Kings and Queens of England, even
when adorned with emeralds and rubies two inches across.
Nor did I think that the poisoning of the magician was
conducted with proper secrecy. He might see at any
moment that the huge black bottles had POISON painted
upon them in vivid red. My wildest dreams, however, had
conceived no such supernatural splendour as that of the
transformation scenes, with the peris poised high among the
jewelled lights. Pantomimes now never seem so airy and
so luminous; indeed only once, in a performance of The
Magic Flute , when the Queen of the Night suddenly appeared
aloft in the starlit sky, have I caught again a little of that
early rapture. Enthralling, too, was the performance of
Victoria Yokes as the Princess Badroulbadour, pirouetting
on one toe with a grace and agility which held me spell
bound. Many a cropper did I come during the following
weeks in giddy efforts to do likewise. Her spangled white
and silver, though anything but Chinese, and her mar
vellous acrobatics did not seem inconsistent with the mag
nificence and magical atmosphere of the Oriental story.
These, to my thinking, are marred and dissipated in modern
productions of Aladdin, where the place of honour, year
after year, is given to the widow Twankey, her mangle, and
the humours of washing-day.

My first vague ideas of painting were derived from my
father's sketches. Some decorated our walls, the remainder,
religiously preserved in a great portfolio, were occasionally

32

1868-1877] CHILDHOOD

produced to enliven a wet Sunday afternoon. In 1876,
however, I was given a toy telescope, and happened to notice
in the lens a reflection of the view from our dining-room
window. There was the lawn, the monkey-puzzler , the
greenhouse, and the banks of flowering shrubs which girdled
this part of the domain. Above them rose the hill, with
the old church tower among the elms,, and over it a blue
sky with white drifting clouds. All this was mirrored in
miniature in the little circle of glass, every detail sharp
and clear, every colour pure and intense. Henceforward I
dreamed of a sort of painting just like that, vivid and precise,
but so tiny that it could figure in an illuminated manu
script or be enclosed in a locket. But it remained a dream.
I was no infant Hilliard, and could not draw even the
simplest thing without ludicrous mistakes in form and
proportion.

Lessons every morning with my mother had been, at first,
a regular feature in our Awliscombe life. Then difficulties
began, because I liked my mother's way of teaching rather
too well. She had encouraged me to read for myself. The
newly acquired pleasure of doing so threatened to turn me
into a little library grub, an insatiable devourer of any book
that might be handy. Yet when I was turned out to get
fresh air there was sure to be trouble. The discipline of the
village National School was tried for a few weeks, but failed
entirely. So at last, though I was only six, I was sent away
to a boarding-school at Budleigh Salterton.

Cliff House, where I appeared as a new boy for the fourth
time, was run by Mr. Beatty and his wife. He had been a
sailor and was now reading for orders. His views, if I may
judge from our regular Sunday lesson-books Near Home '
and c Far Off, 3 must have been severely evangelical. He
was not a bad fellow ; free with the cane, but free also with
diversions for us, walks above the too fragrant beach; by
the pleasant estuary of the Otter, where he could e pot' at
things with a revolver; or among the hazels, sloes and
beeches on the uplands; bathing in summer at Ladram

33

SELF AND PARTNERS [1868-1877

Bay; hockey matches against the rival Woodhouse estab
lishment and private theatricals at Christmas.

Once I really did disgrace myself. Each of us had to
cultivate a small garden. In the centre of mine there sprang
up a crimson-leaved plant of exceptional size. But, to my
secret chagrin, one more lofty still, by a good six inches,
adorned the neighbouring plot, a joint concern of two
Anglo-Indian brothers about my size and age. Th'e Cain
in me was suppressed till, on one unhappy day, the brothers
too openly exulted in my presence. I saw red. Falling
upon them in fury, I drove the pair to retreat and to tears,
and lopped their flaunting vegetable. For this I was soundly
and deservedly whipped (by Mrs. B.) with a slipper; the
heel (I speak with some experience) can inflict a pain which
rivals in degree and duration that from a stout ground-ash.
The real trial at Budleigh was the food. To a child
brought up on honest country butter, the salted substitutes
for it are simply nauseous. Also, Mr. Beatty's seafaring had
made him familiar with canned meat. Great gray-brown
cylinders of Australian mutton were piled in the larder;
their contents, equally gray and dismal, were part of our
regular menu. At the top of the dinner-table there might
be a hot appetizing joint: at the bottom, where I sat, there
seemed always to be this wholesome but revolting importa
tion. I remember sitting miserable and stupid in the dining-
room with a plate of the accursed thing before me all
through one long summer afternoon. The rest of the school
had gone off in brakes for a picnic* and I should be (and
was) whipped for disobedience when they came back but
I could not force myself to swallow it. Some hint of the
trouble ultimately reached my mother's ears, for after that
summer I did not return to Budleigh,

Owing to my grandfather's illness and other anxieties my

mother was needed at Preston, so thither we travelled again.

A presentation to Christ's Hospital was now offered on

my behalf, but was declined. My mother judged me to be

too sensitive for the misunderstandings which the dress might

34

1 868- 1 877] CHILDHOOD

occasion in Devonshire, where it was quite unknown. She
preferred the idea of the Clergy Orphan School at Canter
bury ; but election to the Foundation would take some time.
Accordingly, on her return to Awliscombe, she resumed
charge of her invalid lady, and so was enabled to send me,
in November, to a school at Ottery St. Mary. The boys at
Priory House were much bigger than any I had previously
met, and during the first few weeks I got rather knocked
about. But when I came back after the Christmas holiday,
in January 1877, the bullies were gone, and all thence
forward went well, except for my own misdoings.

' Jacky ' Frost, the headmaster, was kindly but vigorous.
One of his mighty slogs at cricket caught me between the
shoulders, as I stood among the spectators, knocking me
headlong, and put me into the doctor's hands for some
days. I can recall, too, the particular vigour with which
he once spanked me for a gorgeous expedition down the
riverside.

And the place itself was not unfriendly. Priory House
presented its rather handsome old face to. the road, and the
East end of the magnificent church. The premises behind
included a Jacobean portion with a haunted staircase, still
stained, as the legend went and our scrutiny of the grubby
boards could not disprove, with the blood of a Cavalier or a
Roundhead, who had fought and died upon it.

My chief crony among the boys was named Oliver, a
precocious genius, or quite phenomenal liar, possessing if
I was to believe him a whole fleet of model battleships
with guns and turrets^complete, which fought mimic engage
ments and were reconstructed at intervals as the advances in
naval science demanded. Our friendship started with a
fight in which I was victorious. My other fight, with Johnny
Marker, afterwards Colonel of the Coldstreams, ended less
happily. Being bony and tough, he knocked me out almost
at once. On the whole, however, existence at Ottery was
delightfully serene. I was even making some progress at
hockey, when new boots were needed. An aunt happened

35

SELF AND PARTNERS [1868-1877

to come over, took me to an Ottery shop, and compelled me
to accept a pair which I knew were too tight. They proved
to be so. I suffered much in the following months, and still
believe that my powers of running were permanently
affected by those accursed constrictors.

My headmaster, in his letters to my mother, insists, as
much perhaps from policy as from charity, that my troubles
were all due to thoughtlessness. Once, indeed, when walk
ing down the main street of Ottery, I was abruptly roused
from meditation by strange sounds and shadows, to find
myself in the middle of the road, right under the pole of an
advancing wagon between two towering cart-horses. It is
no wonder that 'inattentive ' is the burden of my terminal
reports.

Events elsewhere now determined our stay in Devonshire.
By the death of my grandmother, in the spring, the house
hold at Preston was left without a head, my grandfather
being still more or less of an invalid. My mother had been
summoned North during the emergency, and it became
evident that she was the only person who could take per
manent charge. Our pleasant vicarage had thus to be
abandoned, the furniture sold, and a move made to Lanca
shire. Thither I followed my mother and brother just before
Christmas 1877.

The last months at Ottery were pleasant, the Fifth of
November being specially memorable. In the morning we
saw the town fire-brigade drenching with its hand-pump the
many thatched roofs which faced the street. At night, amid
the cries of * Tar Barriel ! Tar Barriel ! ' and the discharge
of squibs and crackers, a flaming cask was rolled rumbling
down the road past our gates, followed by a crowd of
revellers. Jacky Frost became even more friendly than usual,
professing a wish to keep me on almost any terms. But the
difficulties of the long cross-country journey from Lancashire,
and of declining the forthcoming election to the Canterbury
Foundation, decided my mother to make an end. On the
last day Jacky summoned me to his study, and gave me a

36

1868-1877] CHILDHOOD

little copy of Scott's ' Marmion ' not for a prize, as he was
careful to explain, but as a little memento of himself.
Flodden and Fontarabia, the stubborn spearmen and the
horn of Roland, were quickly found and remembered ; but
the giver, I fear, in the strenuous days which followed, was
almost as quickly forgotten.

37

CHAPTER III

CANTERBURY AND PRESTON
(1878-1881)

The Clergy Orphan School; clothes, food and fagging; the
mumps ; fishing the Gudgeon Stream ; the ghost in the tunnel ;
the house at Preston ; fishing and archery ; my brother Frank ;
Preston Grammar School; the Rev. A. B. Beaven; E. B.
Osborne ; Ingleborough-; * The Tarn and the Lake ' ; geology.

EACH of the next few years was sharply divided into two
unequal periods. For ten months I was a schoolboy in the
South; the remainder was holiday-time, spent in my grand
father's house at Preston. In their immediate effect upon
my habit of mind, as in their duration, the schooldays were
the more considerable.

In January 1878 I was taken to Canterbury by my mother.
We made our way to the school doctor's house for the pre
liminary medical examination. A second boy and mother
arrived at the same moment. The aged white-haired doctor
greeted our parents, took off his spectacles, searched our
polls curiously with them for a few seconds (for what?), and
the inspection, was over. Soon the fatal cab with mother,
box, and apprehensive self was mounting St. Thomas's Hill.
Half-way up the slope we passed a public-house and one or
two small cottages. In front of them lounged a group of
rather rough and grubby-looking boys, in queer red and
black caps. My heart sank. I knew at once that I was
'for it.'

The Clergy Orphan School, known to its intimates more
briefly as 'The Cos,' and bearing Fungar vice cotis for its
punning motto, fed, clothed and educated more than a
hundred and twenty boys. As with many other old founda
tions, the traditions of a hardier age still persisted there,

38

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

All schoolboys were expected to rough, it a little, and the
asperities of life during the "seventies were not peculiar to
Canterbury. During the last forty years, successive head
masters, from Dr. Upcott to Canon Burnside, backed by
secretaries like W. C. Cluff, and a sympathetic Committee,
have changed the place beyond recognition. In comity of
life and in material comfort, St. Edmund's, like its sister
St. Margaret's at Bushey, is now the equal of other good
public schools; an improvement reflected in its average
products.

We were provided with one suit annually, an Eton jacket
(Harrow type) of broadcloth, with waistcoat and trousers
of gray tweed. An archaic peaked cap of black broadcloth
was also furnished, but fell into disuse, I think, about 1880.
Our clothes were supposed to last us for three years as
bests/ 'seconds' and 'thirds' successively. These last, by
the third year, had naturally come to be outgrown by their
owners. Also, being destined for everyday use, including
all games, they were soon worn out. A sewing-room patched,
mended or exchanged our garments for us, but there came
times when even I, never very observant of externals, was
conscious of looking like a ragged street arab. To this
extinction of personal pride our boots materially contributed,
being of the clog-like build known, I believe, as 'Bluchers.'
Since a few boys managed to keep themselves spick and span
from the beginning to the end of their careers, I presume
the allowance was not theoretically insufficient, but it left
no margin for rapid growth, for accidents, or for very cold
weather, when some of us suffered considerably.

Our dietary, so Mr. Matheson informed my mother, had
been adjusted on similar scientific principles. The unvary
ing ration at breakfast and tea was a piece of bread, six
inches long and two and a half inches square, one side of
which had been moistened by a bare scrape of butter. By
each plate stood a mug containing an inch or so of milk, an
allowance that might be enlarged from tarnished tin jugs
of hot water set at intervals along the table. Dinner varied

39

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

with the day of the week. Sunday, with veal and open tart
of semi-synthetic jam, was our feast day; Wednesday's
treacle-tart the supreme luxury. Thursday was a day of
fasting, for the dish was resurrection-pie, not wholly un
palatable to my thinking, yet deemed to be so by custom,
excepting the crust. Valiant in life as in death, and rendered
desperate by hunger, old Stoddart defied the taboo, ate
lustily of the forbidden thing, and then it seemed to us a
judgment was smitten with boils.

An optional relish to the midday meal was half a mug of
small beer, poured out by Rusty, the headmaster's coach
man, from a vessel like an immense watering-can. I have
often wondered whether such small beer, probably brewed
from honest malt and hops, had not some unsuspected tonic
virtue. With its discontinuance as part of everyday school
boy fare, the liability to minor nervous affections has
certainly not diminished. Our surroundings might well
have fostered such troubles, yet they were practically non
existent, like dyspepsia. We were always hungry, of course,
so that any additional edible thing which could be bought,
begged, bartered, caught, picked or stolen, was a godsend.
From swedes and turnips to yew-berries and hawthorn buds,
nothing came amiss. If the boys, on an average, ran rather
smaller than those at other schools, the difference may not
have been wholly due to a scientifically minimized diet.
Many, like myself, doubtless came from parents whose health
had been prematurely broken, and the majority made up in
toughness for what they lacked in stature.

Shabby clothes and scanty fare were really minor evils to
which a boy could soon adapt his appetite and his self-
respect. Not so was the system of fagging a quaintly
simple system. Any boy became the fag of anyone else who
could thrash him into obedience. I have seen old Stoddart
blubbering defiance for over an hour, while being steadily
beaten, coram populo, with a knotted rope, until he could
endure no more, and consented to fag for a stronger boy.
Nor was the tyrant really a bad fellow; there were many,

40

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

many worse. He had started merely to maintain his rights ;
to stop before he had gained his point would have been to
admit defeat in public.

Being the youngest and smallest boy in the whole school,
I was naturally fag to everyone, and all my little private
possessions were promptly 'borrowed.' After the first shock
of resentment, I became resigned and trotted on my con
tinuous errands without protest, or much punishment,
except when a job for A was cancelled or interrupted by an
order from the still more powerful B. Genuine discomfort
began over earth-worms. Certain ardent naturalists kept
birds, young cuckoos and the like (How I hated their gaping
bills!), and these needed a daily diet of worms. Worms,
therefore, the weakest of us had perforce to dig for every
morning in the ditch outside the playground. In the bitter
March weather we developed horrid bursting chilblains,
so that delving in that half-frozen clay and water, until our
tale was accomplished, remains a loathsome memory.

Worse was soon to follow. Mumps broke out, and I woke
in the West Dormitory, the one refuge from my round of
servitude, to find my chops were sore and swollen. *So
you've got 'em, you little 'ound,* was the sympathetic
greeting of Mrs. P., the school nurse, and I was packed off
to share with more than a dozen boys a small room in the
Infirmary. The second and outer room was allotted to
seniors, persons much more to Mrs. P.'s taste. We were left
severely alone. With nothing to amuse them but a few
scraps of 'The Young Folks' Weekly Budget,' the larger boys
fell back immediately upon M. and myself, the two weakest,
to provide sport for them.

We were dogs, Toby and Carlo, kept kennelled "under our
beds, and set to make pellets of folded paper. At intervals,
when a fresh supply of ammunition was due, we were
summoned forth and made to stand open-mouthed as targets
for the rest, armed with miniature catapults. This amuse
ment palling (we soon got used to the confinement and the
sting), others more painful were devised. One brute, T. ?

4 1

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

used to set us up on a washhand-stand, and then see how
far his heavy fist could hit us on to the bed behind. B., more
ingeniously, would make us crawl out backwards from our
kennels, and then return us with a dexterous kick ; he played
football for the school. So far had we fallen from all human
standards, that I was genuinely amazed when, on the tenth
day, the grim Stephenson, who had once laid out a farm
labourer in a stone fight, entered at dinner-time from the
outer room, to see that our portions of a quite unexpected
and appetizing Irish stew were not taken away from us.
At the time I did not recognize the possible connexion of
that strange luxury and mansuetude with a visit, the same
afternoon, from a doctor. Thank goodness ! He let me out.

The experience, brief though it was, left several lasting
scars on my temper. I learned to hate T., and in a less
degree B., with a fury which smouldered for years. I learned
what it was to be helpless so helpless that, when stricken by
subsequent catastrophes, I have always been able to console
myself by recalling this period, in which my fortunes had
sunk to their absolute nadir. There seemed no way of
escape from this unhappy order of things as established by
grown-up authority. Any appeal, protest or complaint
would have been quite futile. Boys might run away from
the school, sometimes getting as far as London, but they
were invariably and ignominiously recaptured.

As I reflected, like Robinson Crusoe, upon my melancholy
condition, childish logic suddenly perceived that there might
be limits, after all, to non-resistance. Having suffered so
much, I could not suffer very much more even if, with due
regard, of course, to the strength of the oppressor, I sometimes
hit back. A suitable test soon presented itself in the person
of one not much older or stronger than myself. As he
coerced me to some distasteful end, I noticed that a form
stood close behind him. Emboldened by the strategic
advantage I hit him in the face with all my puny force.
Over the form, naturally, he toppled, was too surprised to
retaliate effectively, and finally developed a black eye, for

42

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

my encouragement, and for a warning to similar small fry.
But my career as a bruiser was a chequered one. The boys
in my form were mostly much older and bigger than my
self, and I won no victories there. Yet to be knocked down,
especially on grass, by a swinging blow from someone whom
you have already marked, is much less painful than it
sounds, and gives time for recovering the breath.

Hardened by these exercises, and having acquired by
practice a respectable force and precision in stone-throwing,
I now began to pass muster with my coevals. Like them I
learned, at the price of many snufBings and chilblains, to
endure cold since top-coats were not worn even in the
depth of winter and to take my share of the knocks which
come to small boys who have to join in violent games with
big ones. To be tossed in a blanket, even to the top of a
high schoolroom, is much less of an ordeal, as I can testify,
than its reputation suggests unless the blanket splits.
Discipline in general was vigorous if erratic, minor mis
demeanours being punished daily by the captain of the
school with a stout ground-ash or a cricket-stump; and
when the captain was some mighty cricketer like W. N.
Roe, each stroke left a lasting impression. Nevertheless
small boys, displaying no notable proficiency in games,
could often scuttle off, after roll-call on a half-holiday, to
range the countryside undisturbed.

Only at a somewhat later date did I become conscious of
the beauty of these Kentish woodlands in the spring, car
peted with flowers, fretted above with sprouting buds against
the blue sky, and so altogether glorious that one burst into
uncouth carolling when out of earshot. Bird's-nesting was
the common objective. Mine was the trickle of water
beyond the Gudgeon Wood, known, lucus a non lucendo, as
the Gudgeon Stream. Where it flowed in the sunlit open
towards the culvert under the Whitstable Railway it con
tained only loaches and miller's thumbs. Above, it ran
under thickets like a miniature trout-stream, alternate
hollow pool and rapid shallow. The pools, often nearly

43

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

two feet deep, could be fished with a hazel rod, stout cotton,
a roach hook or even a bent pin, a small worm, and a frag
ment of cork for float. The quarry consisted chiefly of
minnows, so vigorous, so large and so different from the
minnows previously known to me, that I long believed them
to be the Fordidge trout of Izaak Walton. A dozen and a
half counted as a good basket, and made a not unsavoury
mess when cooked over the lavatory gas in the dripping
used for greasing footballs.

This enchanting sport had its perils, being regarded as
poaching or trespassing by the 'knaves' of the adjoining
farms, and mercilessly punished. So, when crouched in the
little channel, well under the bushes, I have watched with
anxiety my fellow-angler, the agile Bunny Williams, dis
covered, chased on to the plough by the huge limbs of
young Moses, the most active of the knaves, and nearly
caught because his superior pace availed him little among
the clods. The same indefatigable hunter spied us a little
later in a field not far from the school, and as we ran from
him my bootlace broke, the boot worked off, and I fell
behind. The enemy gripped me with one great paw : the
other, to my terror, held a sickle. Satisfied with one victim,
he called out 'Ye can sta-art ! ' to Williams, who had stopped
on seeing the capture. Instead of making off, that sturdy
friend, coming nearer, assailed young Moses with a fire of
satirical personalities which made him pause. The asper
sions on his appearance and physical powers had at first no
effect. 'Ye can sta-art, 9 he repeated stubbornly. But some
reference to his legs proved too much for him. Flinging me
to the ground, he rushed at his tormentor, who drew him
away over the grass, dodging him with so much dexterity
that in watching the scene I forgot my own danger. A cry
of 'Run, you little fool I' recalled my straying senses, and
gathering up my useless boot, I reached the road in safety,
where my liberator soon joined me.

Near the Gudgeon Stream I met with an adventure more
dangerous and more curious. Before the branch line from

44

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

Canterbury to Whitstable reaches the culvert, it passes
through a long, old-fashioned tunnel. To walk through this
tunnel was held to be a daring feat, for it was narrow, was
reputed to have only one manhole in the wall some five
hundred yards from each end, and emergence on the
Canterbury side might land the pioneer in the midst of
hostile railwaymen. With a friend, 'Widow' Thorpe, I
set out one day to attempt the passage. Only one train ran
to and fro on the single line; so after watching this enter
the tunnel on its way to Canterbury, we followed confidently
in its wake. The roar of the train died away before us, but
the tunnel was still obscured by the eddying smoke. We
had advanced nearly five hundred yards, and were feeling
for the manhole by keeping our sticks against the wall, when
we were brought to a halt by the appearance of what looked
like a tall gray figure standing on the track. Was it a work
man who had walked out of the manhole; or was it merely
a pillar of eddying smoke? I had much the keener vision
of the two, and still believe it to have been the latter. So
disquieting nevertheless was the phenomenon, that we
decided after a short consultation to postpone our venture,
and run back the way we had come. Being a well-known
sprinter, the Widow set a pace over the sleepers which I
could not maintain. Panting after him, I became aware of
a sound behind me which grew in a few moments into the
unmistakable rattle and roar of an advancing locomotive.
The race begun half in jest was continued in frantic terror.
Fear lent me wings ; indeed there was not a second to spare.
As we reached daylight and flung ourselves exhausted on
the ballast by the tunnel's mouth, an engine rushed out
above us on its way to Whitstable. Evidently it had been
waiting in a siding at the far side of the tunnel for the train
to pass, and it must have caught us but for that menacing
wraith. We thenceforward 3 and others for the time, left the
tunnel to itself.

Self-protection at first so engaged my thoughts that few
remained available for my lessons. This incapacity, or

45

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

indifference, moreover did not vanish with the shrinking of
its cause, but turned to simple idleness. Much more openly
contemptuous of books was an older school-fellow who,
having an unusual allowance of pocket-money, fared sump
tuously among us. Leaving the school, he returned as an
Old Boy, natty and cheerful as ever, but an assistant in
Marshall and Snelgrove's. I had given little thought to the
future, yet such a career fell so far below any way of life I
had conceived for myself, and was such a contrast to M.'s
prosperous independence while he was with us, that it
seemed a judgment upon idleness. Fifty years ago the pro
fessional classes looked upon retail trade as something lying
outside the social pale, and I was too immature, and too
conventional by nature, not to be infected by the prejudice.
At the moment it did me good service, for, in the fright
occasioned by my snobbery, I took to my books again.

Fiction being a necessity in the long winter evenings, it
was politic to bring from home at least one paper-backed
novel. When read, this could be exchanged for another,
and so would circulate until, hopelessly dog's-eared and
tattered, it finally fell to pieces. Oddly enough, 'Jane
Eyre' and 'Wuthering Heights' moved me more than
Dickens, Scott or Thackeray ; I could never forgive Esmond
for marrying Lady Castlewood. But the description of
Lowood School, poignantly recalling my own discomforts,
induced a pleasant mood of sentimental self-pity; the
dream-ghost of Catherine at the window thrilled me as
even c The Black Cat' and c The Fall of the House of Usher '
did not. They were too c steep.' Who would really build
a family mansion on the edge of a tarn?

Since our Easter holidays lasted little longer than a week,
I generally had to spend them at the school a great oppor
tunity for exploration but at Midsummer and Christmas I
went to my grandfather's house in Lancashire. Since this
became my home for some twelve years, and had much
influence over my mental outlook, I may be forgiven if I
describe it briefly.

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

The plateau upon which Proud Preston is built descends
somewhat abruptly at its southern and western edges to the
fields bordering the Ribble. The southern slope is laid out
with unusual taste as a public park : the adjoining slope to
the west is occupied by a series of private houses. Here in
1838 my great-uncle William Dickson had designed and
built a joint residence for my grandfather and himself. The
eastern front along the road to the park showed a pair of
semi-detached houses, of excellent brickwork with portals
of sandstone, simple, but quite finely cut and proportioned.
The more southern of the two houses was my grandfather's,
and was then numbered 33.

The outlook eastward was typical Lancashire; past
blackened elms and a little field to the high wall of the
railway goods-yard and ever-shunting wagons. The sur
prise came when one passed the airy hall, effectively lighted
by a tall staircase window, and had reached the rooms on
the west. The bank behind the house dropped so suddenly
that the ground-floor was now carried aloft upon a row of
arches. These supported a broad verandah, running for
fifty yards or more along the entire front of the joint building,
floored with cleanly lead, the rails and trellised pillars half-
hidden under climbing pear-trees. Upon this sunny elevated
promenade the windows of drawing-room and dining-room
opened, with a view over trees, gardens, fields and river to
the wooded slopes of Penwortham, a mile away. The white
cottage of our gardener-coachman in the middle distance
was the single building then visible. Later came a railway
embankment, and now the last vestiges of nature are buried
by street upon street of little houses.

The quarters allotted to my brother and myself in this
establishment were the day and night nurseries. Here the
amateur architect had gone astray. Not only had he made
the rooms too low, so that the ceilings in places sloped to
within three feet of the floor, but the single approach to the
whole top storey was by a dark, narrow, creaking stair with
a nasty twist at the bottom. Great cisterns collected the

47

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

rain-water from the roof by covered conduits, providing
delightful channels for sailing-boats in wet weather. A big
cupboard contained my uncle Herbert's naval sword, and
the more ponderous sabre of a Buck cousin who had fought
at Waterloo : invaluable weapons when searching under the
beds for a robber. Just across the stairs lay the museum-
laboratory of my uncle Edmund, crammed with his geo
logical collections and scientific paraphernalia. His tools
and lathe, to which my father's made a welcome addition,
were housed far below in a big dim cellar, in which we
somehow managed to practise carpentry and engineering
untroubled by the perpetual twilight.

From the garden, the house, with its long arcade and
verandah, made quite an imposing spectacle. The gardens
themselves were so diversified by irregular contours, trees,
shrubs, hedges, greenhouses, flowers and vegetables as to
seem more extensive than they were. In two long fields
below, sheep, at times, provided excellent hunting ; a tennis-
court less irregular pursuits. Three small springs flowed
out along the edge where slope and level merged, the largest
of them in its ditch- wise passage to the river affording cover
for water-rats, eels and sticklebacks. Altogether a Land of
Promise for two small boys, left very much to themselves in
a household of grown-ups.

Illness had curtailed my grandfather's power of walking,
without affecting his ability as a solicitor. Under him, with
two married brothers, worked my uncle Edmund; more
from duty than inclination, his thoughts being all for science.
His cheerful and strenuous junior, my uncle Arthur, was
training as a land-agent. Social and housekeeping duties
occupied my mother and her young sister, Adela. So long
as the two small boys, the last and least in the household,
refrained from doings which impinged beyond concealment
upon their elders in their several orbits, they could play as
they pleased.

I cannot recall the period without regretting much that
happened. Canterbury had taught me to fight for myself-

48

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

my brother's gentle temper made it easy to play the tyrant.
The home-bred boy stands a poor chance when matched
against the product of a rough boarding-school, who is also
the older and stronger of the pair. I was far too deeply
attached to my brother Frank to become a regular bully,
but was too oftfcn selfish, hasty and overbearing. Never
theless, though sparring continually, we had great fun
together. Battles with tin soldiers delighted us for years,
even working at model boats, steam engines and the lathe
could not displace them in favour.

Among outdoor sports fishing came first. The passion
was roused, or revived, by a walk in the park near the old
Tram Bridge over the Ribble. Just below it we saw a long
green and white cork float slowly pulled under the water;
when it was pulled out an eel followed it. Who could resist
this appearance of a strange thing from the unknown deep?
Having procured lance- wood rods (is. 6d.) from the Fisher-
gate gunsmith, we were introduced by a friend to catching
roach in a pond, and then to grander quarry. A day on the
Brock with my uncle Edmund brought me my first trout, so
happily proportioned that he could be borne home in a
bottle, and housed in the sunken trough by the tennis-lawn.
Fortunately the spring that fed this receptacle harboured
water-shrimps, so the trout lived there for several years,
until a huge flood sweeping up to the garden foot restored
him to liberty.

The great ponds at Messrs. Swainson and Birley's mills
provided fiercer joys. It was a strange place to go a-fishing
among mighty buildings tremulous and humming with
machinery, massive beam engines, tall chimneys belching
smoke, a labyrinth of hot-water conduits and high palings,
black paths and coarse herbage. Stearn drifted off and over
the tepid c lodges ' ; the lubricating oil which came into them
from the engines fattened hundreds of carp, running up to
four pounds or more, and some large black eels. From
dough stiffened with cotton-wool we advanced to genuine
bread paste as a standard bait; sometimes bread alone

49

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

would serve. If a fair-sized piece of bread were thrown into
the water on a calm day, it would slowly disintegrate, and
thereby attract fish to the surface until the water seethed
with their rises and gobblings. A cube of bread cast like a
fly towards the focus of excitement would then be seized, and
seldom by a small fish, The carp fought splendidly, so that
the sport in these odd surroundings surpassed any that we
found elsewhere. Tench vaster still could be seen sailing
among the water-lilies in a pond at Penwortham Hall : but
only once in many days' fishing did one bite at a worm, and
that bite was missed. We surveyed much of the country
round, testing pond after pond, only to catch small perch,
roach or eels ; occasionally nothing at all, as when, in our
innocence, we spent an afternoon harrying the poisonous
waters of the Darwen.

Archery was the rival sport. My mother passed over to
us her bow, a delightful 38-pounder, and a green morocco
sheath of the most perfect arrows I ever saw. To these
dainty relics of her early prowess we were further attracted
by the idea of emulating the mediaeval bowmen. But alas !
instead of 400 yards we found our range was about 150, and
no more than 100 for reasonable accuracy. Cheap arrows
proved too unsteady in flight for serious purposes. Even the
perfectly finished and balanced rarities from the maternal
quiver flew with just so much undulation as to make the
hitting of a horizontal mark, like a fence rail, a matter of
chance. But with an upright stick it was different. The
arrow kept to a vertical course so faithfully that the legends
of Little John and the rest of them hitting a peeled willow
became quite credible. Even I could splinter a broom
handle, or the like, at 25 or 30 yards. The precious arrows
in time were reduced to three in number, and my vanity
led to the loss of another, A sceptical visitor challenged me
with the offer of half-a-crown to hit, first shot, a bottle placed
on a post at the far end of the tennis-lawn. These ordeals
needed some force; I shot hard; the bottle, a small black
beer-bottle, rang and toppled, but the arrow, alas! was

50

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

splintered into fragments. It was an expensive half-crown,
for those perfect arrows of the 'fifties could not be replaced.
Then one of the two survivors pitched, by some mis
chance, on the roof of the house, rattling down into the
gutter where even the longest ladder could never reach it
owing to the projection of the verandah. Nor could it be
dislodged with a fishing-rod from a skylight. Nothing
remained but a crawl down the slates. 1 managed to
traverse the sloping diagonal, head-first on my stomach,
reached the gutter and pitched the sacred arrow to safety
on the gravel fifty feet below. Then, and only then, did I
discover, to my horror, that I could not turn to crawl back
without rolling over the edge. There I stuck, utterly terri
fied, I could not bring myself to send my brother for help :
that would involve his contempt, and both of us in the wrath
of our elders. So inch by inch I began to push myself back
wards up that ghastly slope. A feat which a trained climber
could have performed with ease in a couple of minutes took
me twenty, or so it seemed, and as I made the diagonal
traverse to the skylight, and was seized by the boot, and
helped to safety, I vowed that not for a dozen arrows would
I be such an idiot again. The acquisition of an air-gun
shortly afterwards put an end to the need for any further
follies of that sort.

My brother, for all his gentleness, had the greater courage
of the two. It was he who dared me to jump from the ten-
foot platform at the deep end of the swimming-baths, and
set the example. It was he who tried the creaking ice on
the black tarn above Scorton, and discovered that it would
bear, when all the low-lying waters would not, and so. gave
us five days of perfect and undisturbed skating. It was he
who first ventured out on the top of the walls separating the
deep 'lodges' at New Hall Lane, to reach the currents in
which the carp bit most freely. It was he who led the way,
after we had climbed the rusty fire-escape up the side of one
of those big cotton-mills, to walk along the coping of the roof.
The unexpected bird's-eye vista of mill-ponds, roofs, and

5 1

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

solemn chimney-shafts seen from that coping gave me, I
think, my very first glimpse of the spacious de-humanized
grandeur such industrial panoramas might display. It
dominated my dreams for some years, and a picture of
Seven Chimneys painted thirty years later is based upon that
childish memory. The picture now belongs to the Eton
friend, T. B. Lewis, who commissioned my most ambitious
essay in this type of painting the series of Blackburn
landscapes at Samlesbury Hall.

Our liberty to seek external adventure was accompanied
by domestic comforts which made an almost ludicrous con
trast to the spartan life at Canterbury. The house was warm
and spacious ; the servants all friendly and efficient. Kate,
the tall, slender, gentle under-housemaid, had the charge
of us. The daughter of one of my grandfather's tenants, she
had a sporting spirit, rescuing us from trouble when she
could, and if attacked with pillows, capable of dealing a
swashing blow before which all opposition went headlong.
The food also was excellent, for my grandfather had the
instincts of a bon viveur, by which we profited. Even before
we reached the dignity of admission to dinner-parties, an
occasional glass of port or sherry was permitted, but neither,
to my mind, had the distinction of an ancient cowslip wine,
made from some recipe of my grandmother's. This golden
liqueur, for it was a potent syrup rather than a wine, had a
subtle character and a flower-like fragrance worthy of much
greater fame, I suppose the making of it is now a lost art,
like the secret of a certain standard luncheon-dish of minced
veal, or was a personal gift, like the making of oat-cakes,
milk-cakes and other toasted-and-buttered delicacies of the
North-country.

Family portraits, from the seventeenth century onwards,
some fine old furniture, much old silver and china, blended
not inharmoniously with Victoriaa flock-paper, prismatic
chandeliers and solid mahogany. The c Standard,' Cornhill
Magazine ' and c Illustrated London News ' kept us in touch
with the world ; the bound volumes of the last, from its

52

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

commencement, with the cartoons from * Punch/ introduced
us to recent history and politics. In that Conservative
household all that was evil, except personal immorality, was
represented by Joseph Chamberlain. The religious bias was
equally, and more oppressively, definite. It was quite a
pleasant shock to hear an uncle quote, with unholy delight,
a phrase he had caught at some meeting: 'The sweetest
word that ever was breathed Protestantism.'

On Sunday freedom ceased. Morning and evening in our
best clothes, with the hateful addition of gloves, we accom
panied our elders to the square family pew in Christ Church,
to contemplate over its high panels the memorial tablet to
the Rev. Carus Wilson (the Mr. Brocklehurst of Jane Eyre's
c Lowood 3 ?), to work out mental calculations based on the
Dominical or Sunday letter, and to have an open eye for
any other distraction. The friendly vicar, our neighbour
Mr. Firth, interested us less than the headmaster of the
Preston Grammar School, the Rev. Alfred Beaven Beaven.
Once, it was rumoured, he had preached. But he had
started his sermon with the phrase c seated in your pews
like stalled oxen, 9 and the simile had proved too much for
a prosperous middle-class congregation. His help thence
forth was confined to reading the Lessons. With his dark
beard, beetling brow, eyeglass screwed tight into his right
eye, and his reputation for flogging, Mr. Beaven was a
memorable figure as he poised himself two yards back from
the lectern and turned the doings of Elijah and Ahab into
dramatic reality. He had indeed something of the look and
temper of a minatory prophet, coloured by the disdain of a
scholar for the stolid citizens among whom his lot was cast.
I did not guess how soon I should come to know him.

In January 1880 my charming and spirited aunt Adela,
whose coining of age had been celebrated a month earlier,
developed scarlet fever in a form so virulent that recovery
was seen to be hopeless from the first. My brother and I
were packed off at once to an uncle's, but the Canterbury
regulations, scrupulous on this point, forbade my return

53

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

thither. Preston Grammar School proved less exacting, so
there I was sent for six months as a boarder with the dreaded
Mr. Beaven.

His official residence, Avenham House, had been designed
to accommodate some forty boys, or more. It now main
tained less than a dozen. The increasing number of public
schools, and the social status they were supposed to confer,
were everywhere depriving the local grammar schools of
their well-to-do middle-class patronage. Preston too had,
at the moment, to face competition with a neighbouring
grammar school, reputed to be less strenuous, more com
fortable, and therefore more attractive to soft heads, soft
bodies and soft maternal hearts. Personally I found little to
complain about. Compared with Canterbury, the food, the
quarters and the company seemed quite civilized. Though
kept strictly in my place, being once more the youngest
among the boarders, I found the others to be friendly and
tolerant, when once they had cured my selfish or self-defen
sive attitude by ridicule. Of the town boys, about a hundred
in number, we saw very little except in class. I fought, of
course, with several, and had a nodding acquaintance with
many, but our interests really lay apart. There were no
organized games, and the ramshackle premises afforded little
inducement or opportunities for other recreation. An inex
haustible supply of fiction, however, could be borrowed from
the Harris Free Library, at our very door, to animate such
intervals as were not required for work.

Our headmaster did not allow those intervals to be many
or lengthy. Himself a classical scholar caught up by the
movement which was sweeping away the old classical
system, he devoted every thought not required by his zeal
for Disraelian Conservatism to the Oxford Local Examina
tions. Year after year the school triumphed over its fellows
in that competition ; but the price of success proved in the
end to be too heavy, for it entailed a strain upon the endur
ance of the boys which was more than tender-hearted parents
could stand. Industry and discipline were enforced by the

54

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

cane. In his boarding-house and in playful moments, Mr.
Beaven preferred the paper-knife, which he wielded with
the skill of an adept. To catch us pillow-fighting, when the
person was protected by nothing more than a nightshirt,
gave him particular satisfaction.

Being forewarned, I took care at the entrance examina
tion to make no display of erudition, thereby just escaping
the Oxford Locals, to the headmaster's subsequent regret.
His assistant masters were practised boy-drivers, but in the
obscurity of the Third Form I could evade the ferocious
humour of Maddox over simple Caesar and Xenophon, and
establish quite friendly relations with his gentler colleague
Pugh. The acid comments of Atkinson I escaped alto
gether, since I had not to ' take ' Chemistry. But our French
and Mathematics were in charge of the grim Osborne, and
from him there was no escape. A martinet with a sense of
humour, showing little mercy to stupidity and none to idle
ness, Osborne made it his business to see that the set work
was really done by everyone under him. Such teachers
make the reputation of a school, but from concentration
upon their daily routine, seldom acquire the social con
nexions which qualify a man for the plums of the profession.
So it was then with Osborne ; yet, with the possible excep
tion of Edmond Warre, I owe more to him than to any other
of my many masters.

His methods in the mathematical class were simple. We
began school by standing in a large crescent facing the
blackboard. Osborne walked behind us, cane in hand,
receiving from each in turn his exercise of ten sums or
problems worked out in a book. Glancing at them, he read
out, c Number one ; right. Number two; wrong.' Whack,
went the cane. 'Number three; wrong.' Whack, once
more, and so to the painful end, which in my case was apt
to be c The whole dirty and untidy/ Whack, Whack: and
they were no gentle cuts. The effect, however, was magical.
I came to him indolent, inaccurate, slovenly. The thwack-
ings promptly discredited indolence, more slowly disciplined

55

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

inaccuracy, and warred so vigorously with my natural un
tidy habits, that I rose finally to the third place in that well-
seasoned company. Further advance was impossible ; Shaw,
at the top, was never known to make a mistake. The second
boy had an equally perfect record, until one day Osborne
announced with genuine surprise, c Foxcroft; your ninth
sum is wrong l\ and laid the cane softly upon his shoulder,
like a respectful accolade.

Over French I got into more serious trouble. The exer
cises and passages set for translation were really too long for
boys who, like myself, had no natural gift for languages, and
I soon found myself condemned to write out and translate
several pages of a book. I did so, somewhat perfunctorily,
in true poena fashion, skipping a tough sentence here and
there. When I handed in the scribbled sheets, Osborne
asked me if I had done it all. I answered 'Yes. 3 Two days
later my scrawl, with the omissions neatly annotated by him
in red ink, was passed on to ,the headmaster. That famous
expert with the rod forthwith decreed ten cuts of the cane
for lying. Duly extended over a desk, I endured six ; then
the agony became unbearable. I turned and said that if he
would spare me the remaining four I would give him my
word never to tell a lie again. e That hardly bears, I fear,
on the present case, 3 said Mr. Beaven, with something like
a chuckle. 'Go down again.' So down I went, to emerge
weeping and sore, but consoling myself with the thought
that I had escaped being committed irrevocably to telling
the truth.

Two holiday events stand out from the rest. At: Whitsun
tide, my grandfather, after describing the Ingleborough
country where he had spent part of his boyhood, said that
we ought to see it, and produced two half-sovereigns for the
excursion. Starting by a very early train we duly reached
Settle, but the walk thence to Clapham Caves, along dusty
roads in a hot sun, seemed far longer than it looked on the
ordnance map. We were only eleven and nine respectively.
A clamber through the then undamaged caves (the flood

56

1878-1881] CANTERBURY AND PRESTON

which ruined the Giants' Hall occurred in the following
August), with a guide and guttering candle-stumps, restored
our spirits ; the dark ravine of Troll Gill filled us with awe,
the unknown depths of Gaping Gill Hole with curiosity;
patches of grubby snow on the north face of the hill pro
vided unexpected snowballs, while to stand in the wind on
the summit of Ingleborough was like conquering the Matter-
horn. The descent westward upset all our calculations.
Our legs were too short for skipping the limestone ridges,
and we arrived at Ingleton breathless, only to see the tail
lamps of our train receding. It was two in the morning
before we got home by some roundabout route, chilly, stiff
and empty, but confirmed mountaineers thenceforth.

The second experience was a visit in the summer to the
Pedders at Finsthwaite near the foot of Windermere. The
delights of it are already recorded in ' The Tarn and the
Lake ' ; the essence of them was the blend of fishing with
clear air, clear water and variegated mountain scenery; a
combination unknown to industrial Lancashire, and which,
even though the actual sport be meagre, still seems to me
the finest combination in the world. I had not, however,
the least inclination to express these feelings in any form of
art ; it was to science that my attention was overwhelmingly
attracted.

My uncle Edmund had devoted every moment which he
could spare from his work as a solicitor to gardening, botany,
geology, chemistry and electricity. Certain events now
involved him in a scheme for the scientific education of
working men, with Geology for his special subject. He con
ceived an ambitious course of lectures, which eventually
would cover all the aspects of that science, physical and
stratigraphical, petrological and biological, with the prepara
tion of a detailed syllabus to serve as hand-book. He had
previously admitted us, on occasion, to electrical and
chemical demonstrations. He now enrolled me as a totally
unauthorized assistant for his geological scheme. Every
evening, after family prayers at ten o'clock, I was supposed

57

SELF AND PARTNERS [1878-1881

to go to bed. I duly went upstairs, but, allowing an interval
for the house to settle down, slipped across to my uncle's
room, and worked with him there till midnight. His
library, and his really fine collection of specimen rocks and
fossils, soon made me familiar with the outlines of the
science : at night, with microscope and polariscope, I learned
to distinguish between minerals, and to puzzle over problems
like Eozoon Canadense. Excursions to promising quarries with
the learned and dignified vicar of Hoghton, the Rev.
Jonathan Shortt, and a stout tobacconist of exceptional
scientific insight, taught me something of the practical side
of the business.

Eighteen months later I had the subject so well in hand
that I consulted my uncles Edmund and Arthur as to
whether it might not be possible to adopt Geology as a
profession. Mining and its exploratory processes were then
in their infancy; the openings for geological teachers were
few and ill-paid. One of the finest geologists known to my
consultants received only 200 a year for his Professorship.
It would be safer to follow the ordinary routine. Accord
ingly, when the great syllabus was finished and in print, I
had to let Geology drop : not without regret. Never before
had any sort of knowledge come to me so easily, or excited
so much pleasurable speculation as to cause and effect.
Indeed, as the cane of Osborne had impressed upon me the
disadvantages of being inaccurate, so the enthusiasm of my,
uncle Edmund aroused and stimulated a spirit of inquiry
which became a habit.

CHAPTER IV

CANTERBURY AND ETON
(1881-1884)

Canterbury after the epidemic; a great schoolboy; the snow
storm of 1 88 1 ; impressions at Windsor; a scholarship at
Eton ; cursed by Ruskin ; College at Eton ; discipline and idle
ness ; the Wall Game ; ' Eton as She is Not * ; ragging and Its
consequences ; a rebellion.

ON returning to Canterbury in September 1880, 1 found the
school strangely subdued and chastened. During my absence
in the spring, an epidemic of measles had broken out with
which the nursing equipment and accommodation were
naturally quite unable to cope. In the crowded infirmary
more than forty boys at one time lay seriously ill, of whom
three, including Harrison, my particular friend, had died.
The spectacle of a distracted mother stretched weeping, on
the bare floor, by the body of her only son, touched many
who were familiarized with ordinary hardships, and sur
vived as a legend to strengthen the arguments of those who
in after years were to bring about a reform.

One small mitigation of my hungry life was secured by
gaining admission to the 'Special 1 drawing class, with a
greasy laborious copy of a lithographed sheep. I aspired to
no such expert skill as that of the son of Eber, well known
later as Fred Mayor; but the 'Specials ' were given a piece
of bread to rub out with, instead of india-rubber, and such
an edible was worth an effort. A more substantial mitiga
tion soon became visible in the distance. The mathematical
accuracy I had so painfully acquired at Preston quickly
attracted notice, leading first to promotion and the Fifth
Form, then, in the following summer, to particular notice
from Archbishop Tait as 'a very little boy to get so many

59

SELF AND PARTNERS [1881-1884

prizes.' From the Fifth Form, as from Pisgah, the Sixth
Form could be plainly seen; a land of tea and coffee, of
bread and cheese and beer for supper, not to mention the
comparative seclusion of the class-room, and the right to
explore its bookshelves.

The desert which separated us from that Promised Land
was formed by the Odes ' of Horace. The seeker for admis
sion had to learn them by heart, bo'ok after book, and pass
an examination in them aided by memory alone. I was
always miserably slow at learning by heart, so Spring,
Summer and Autumn went by, while I wandered about
with a Horace in my pocket, devoting every free moment
to a task which seemed interminable. In the end I scraped
through, enough of the hardly mastered verse remaining in
my head to give me afterwards a repute as a Horatian
scholar which was quite fallacious. At the time the result
was to plunge me into a wholly new environment. I became
once more a little boy among big ones, being thirteen while
the majority were sixteen, seventeen or eighteen.

Two figures dominated the rest ; one of them, the most
remarkable schoolboy I ever met. Walton Emerson Corn
wall (Emerson was a relative, I believe), known from a
mutilated right hand as Nipper One-Thumb,' was Captain
of the school, and of the cricket and football teams.
Strong, square, upright, rigorous, inflexible, he seemed to
infuse the discipline of ancient Rome into all that he under
took. Like Osborne, he believed in the rod, and the com
pany that he drilled learned to manoeuvre like guardsmen
to the thwack of his ground-ash. Cornwall was no natural
cricketer, but he compelled the Eleven to practise as they
had never practised before, particularly at fielding, so that
his Captaincy was an almost unbroken series of victories.
He had more real authority than any master, daring even,
on the last day of the term, to punish some rowdiness by
ordering the whole school, from the Fifth Form down
wards, to stand in line in the big schoolroom, at attention
and in absolute silence, for one full hour, while he sat

60

1881-1884] CANTERBURY AND ETON

at a table on the dais, quietly working with text and
lexicon.

So deeply did his character impress me that I always
looked forward to meeting Cornwall again, in some station
of life proportionate to his merits. That meeting fortune
did not permit. On leaving Oxford, Cornwall achieved
conspicuous administrative and social success in Australia,
having entirely thrown off, it would seem, his primal
austerity. After some years, on returning for a vacation
in Europe, he was taken ill at Rome, where he died. Rome
was indeed his spiritual city, but it was hard that he should
come to her only to join the more famous 'inheritors of
unfulfilled renown ' who are buried by the Ostian Gate.

Cornwall may have loved order and authority rather too
much; Helby, the second prominent figure in the class
room, went to the opposite extreme, being as impatient and
violent as the other was self-controlled. An excellent bowler,
his physical strength enabled him to throw the cricket-ball
more than 100 yards at the age of sixteen, and his reck
less use of missiles, whether in anger or horse-play, made
him dangerous company. Cornwall alone could keep him
in some sort of order ; when Cornwall left, the small fry
were at his mercy. He was no deliberate bully, merely a
constant peril, especially when warmed with a little beer.
He nearly killed me once by throwing a big jam-jar at my
head; but I did not remember how much I had feared
his rages till a dozen years later. I was then a respectable
publisher, attending a Festival Service in St. PauPs, when
his familiar figure strode up the centre aisle, defiant as ever.
The sight was too much lor me. Slipping quietly to one
side, I tiptoed back to safety and Ludgate Hill.

Over all the assistant masters at this period a pleasant
group, including as a junior that trusty friend of the school
Mr. H. G. Watson the tall figure of E. H. Oldham towered.
He could play football, he could bat, he could bowl and he
could catch the great, shy trout of the Stour. One feat of
his I am glad to have seen. He was asked one day to throw

61

SELF AND PARTNERS [1881-1884

the cricket-ball. A sunken kerbstone marked the hundred
yards limit, but Oldham's throw, soaring far above it, hit
the wall of the school near the porch, some fifteen yards
beyond, and hit it three or four feet from the ground.
117 yards was thus a fair estimate for this casual trial ; only
two yards less than the throw of Bonnor, the giant Australian.
The memory of that soaring ball makes me envy those who
witnessed the throw of 136 yards by Forbes, the Etonian,
which was not believed in until it had been surpassed.

The zeal of the school for cricket was enhanced by the
performance of W. N. Roe, the late Captain, in making
415 not out at Cambridge, a record at the time. It extended
even to the Second Eleven, which in J. E. Dennis and Gordon
Gumming possessed two youthful bowlers who swept all
before them in a sequence of almost ludicrous victories.
These I came to attend in the capacity of umpire, and of
such visits paid to the outer world in connexion with
cricket, none was so memorable as a match at Chilham
Castle. There Colonel Harvey made us free of the grounds,
and those who were not actively engaged on the cricket-
pitch could fish in the lake. This remarkable sheet of water,
fed by springs from the chalk and milky-white with sus
pended lime, contained quantities of roach, some of con
siderable size, providing a pleasant change from any other
fishing I could get. The Stour we might not attempt ; the
Gudgeon Stream, though I got one fair-sized eel from it,
had lost its novelty, and the tench which I discovered in the
Butcher's Pond were more unexpected than exciting.

The great snowstorm of 1881 caught rne at the end of a
visit to my uncle Richard at Windsor. I had been duly
impressed by the splendours of the Castle, and of the Library
with its famous view of Eton across the river, but by nothing
so profoundly as by the service in St. George's Chapel. To
occupy one of those canopied stalls, encrusted with heraldic
memorials, while real princes and princesses sat close by,
while the banners of the Knights of the Garter waved softly
and solemnly overhead, and the choir, among their flickering

62

1881-1884] CANTERBURY AND ETON

candles, sang as I had never heard choir sing before that
was a revelation indeed. Too thrilling, too awe-inspiring,
too august and remote from my own humble world to rouse
any direct ambition, the experience nevertheless was decisive,
in that it disclosed a mode of life so stately, as personified in
gentle white-haired Dean Elliott, and so linked with English
historic traditions, as to suggest an ideal of conduct which,
though it could never be reached, might well be remem
bered. The emotional and aesthetic appeal of such places
and services may not always be very lasting, or have any
foundation in strict logic, but is anyone the worse for it ?

When the day came for my return to school it was snowing
hard, so I was taken by my uncle to Sanger's Circus while
inquiry was made as to the effect of the weather upon the
railways. We emerged into a blizzard, staggered to the Arts
Club in Hanover Square, to learn that, as the Canterbury
trains might be snowed up (and they were), it would be best
to return to Windsor. During tea, the members amused
themselves by setting me passages from very cryptic French
comic papers to construe, shouting with laughter at my
translations, and sending me on my way the richer by five
half-crowns. Muffled each in a rug, we tramped off to
Paddington through snow now fully two feet deep, to find
the Princess Christian and Miss Loch also waiting for the
Windsor train. My awe soon vanished under the influence
of their kindness and chocolates, but the storm caused so
many stoppages that the journey took three and a half
hours, and before the end of it the guard's long beard was
frozen solid. Several days of ice-hockey at Datchet filled
the interval before I returned to school, where the road was
still lined with six-foot walls of snow.

A distant event, with which I had no direct connexion, now
set about altering my future. A boy, utterly unknown to me
even by name, obtained a scholarship at Winchester from a
private school at Cheltenham. At that private school five of
my Dickson uncles had been taught; the two ladies who
owned it had become family friends, and to rny uncle

63

SELF AND PARTNERS [1881-1884

Edmund In particular they were greatly attached. Miss
Bessie Hill, the younger sister, as the classical scholar of the
establishment, was naturally proud of the success of her
favourite pupil, Reginald Cripps. Her pleasure communi
cated to my uncle Edmund the idea that I, too, might be
capable of some such feat. In 1883 he devoted his Easter
holiday to visiting Canterbury, and consulting the head
master. He found Mr. Matheson most ready to help. My
age, at the date of the examination, made Winchester Impos
sible. It was settled, therefore., that I should compete at
Eton.

When the news was broken to me I was dismayed, almost
desperate. I had no particular affection for Canterbury, but
I was able to visualize the ridiculous and Inevitable contrast
between my rough, ragged self and 'that beastly aristocratic
hole' (as I termed it in a letter of protest), to which I was
thus being propelled by my well-meaning but innocent Lanca
shire relatives. I had already been a new boy seven times,
but this (for I had not forgotten my experiences at Windsor)
would be the direst plunge of all. One small consolation was
provided. A friend, the gentle, humorous Paul Kirkby,
would also go up for the examination, so that I might not
have to face the unknown in complete solitude.

I had never understood Mr, Matheson's Greek Grammar.
To correct my too obvious muddling I was set to study
Wordsworth's, in Latin, whereby confusion was doubly con
founded. Yet Kirkby and I, being segregated from our
fellows in the headmaster's study, spent more time in ragging
than in work. Just at the end a nasty accident happened.
I pretended to slay Kirkby with a blunt, broken pocket-
knife, and to my horror the end went through his jacket into
his shoulder. We adjourned to the infirmary, where the cut
was plastered up. But some muscle or ligament had been
touched, and Kirkby had to carry his arm in a sling to the
examination at Eton^ where he was not elected, while I,
much luckier than I deserved to be, took fourth place. The
success saved me from official punishment, but the thought

1881-1884] CANTERBURY AND ETON

that I had probably damaged the prospects of a friend,
clouded my last days at Canterbury. It needed all the
distinction which Kirkby afterwards attained as a mathe
matician, to rid me of that unpleasant feeling.

Yet the secret terror with which I had regarded the
prospect of transportation to Eton was sensibly relieved by
that brief visit to the place; by the stately grandeur of
Upper School where the papers were set, by the kindness of
a quaint little bearded master, whom I was afterwards to
know as Jimmy Joynes, by the cheerful midday meal with
the other candidates at the centre table in College Hall, and
by the company of boys who did not, after all, seem com
pletely different from myself. Also, I stayed with my uncle
Richard at Windsor; saw the Library and St. George's
Chapel once more, discovered Dord's fascinating illus
trations to the 'Contes Drolatiques* (the text was quite
beyond me) ; and caught sundry small roach off the Eyot
above Windsor Bridge with a monstrous pole of a rod, hired
for me from that genial expert Mr. B. R. Bambridge.
Altogether the new world promised to be rather a wonder
ful place.

On reaching Preston I found that my brother's health was
causing anxiety. He had been greatly weakened by a
dangerous illness in the preceding year ; and now, after six
months as a day boy at the Preston Grammar School, was
suffering from overwork. He, too, found it impossible to
keep the pace which Osborne set. Though my mother, like
one or two other parents, did his French exercises for him, a
substitution which Osborne naturally recognized and grimly
condoned, the strain was still too heavy. Remonstrance
failing, Dr. James at Rossall was interviewed, and arranged
to take my brother into his house at the beginning of 1884.
Meanwhile we were both given a fortnight's holiday at
Coniston.

We had ascended Ingleborough, we had explored the fells
at Finsthwaite and Scorton, but the Coniston Old Man pro
vided far wilder and more varied scenery. For a week we

65

SELF AND PARTNERS [1881-1884

ranged over all the crags and summits in the neighbourhood.
Even fishing yielded to the new excitement, indeed our only
two attempts at it were unlucky. Once we set out for Goat's
Water, to be driven back by a terrific downpour which
drenched our shivering bodies and, what was of almost equal
importance, our luncheon sandwiches, in spite of so-called
waterproofs. The silver trickle of a stream descending high
above us from the black, cloudy hollow under Dow Crags
remains the one visual memory of that dismal morning.
Thirty years later, it was turned into a picture. On the
other occasion we tested Levers Water, reported in our
guide-book to contain fine trout. For us It contained
nothing; not a movement stirred that inky tarn, and, as
the clouds darkened over the great lonely amphitheatre in
which we stood, the aspect of the water became more and
more forbidding. What primeval monster might not have
lived on there, like the undying fish of Bowscale, and be
lurking for us? Seized with simultaneous panic, we fled
headlong from the place.

Ruskin, preserved from the vulgar gaze by the guardian
ship of the Severns, was the local divinity : his likeness
everywhere displayed in the little shops ; his shrine, Brant-
wood, plainly visible across the lake from the Old Hall where
our boat was housed. Towards it we rowed one Sunday
afternoon. Copsewood came down to the stony beach;
from the beach protruded a little stake to which a cord
seemed to be attached. A night-line? That should be
investigated. Rowing ashore, I landed to haul in the cord.
Just as I had found it to be baited with a small discoloured
trout, steps sounded from the woodland behind. Hastily
throwing back bait and line, I pushed off the boat and
clambered in ; but hardly were we well afloat before an old
gentleman with a gray beard emerged from the wood, waving
a stick and cursing us vigorously for trespassing. It was the
Ruskin of the photographs, and we rowed away a little
frightened by this denunciation from the great recluse.

A short stay at Grasmere followed. Here the relics of a

66

1881-1884] CANTERBURY AND ETON

dead Wordsworth, known to us only by guide-book quota
tions, could not really compete with the recent memory of a
live Ruskin, whom we had not read at all, but whom we
had actually seen and heard. Yet the company in which
we found ourselves at The Wyke was so attractive as to
invest the simplest excursions with a glamour that lasted for
some time after our return to harsh,, masculine realities at
Preston. After a ridiculous effort to prepare my feeble frame
for the coming ordeal with some ancestral and most unsuit
able dumb-bells, the fatal day arrived when I journeyed
in my mother's company to London and thence to Eton.

When a top-hat and other indispensable articles of dress
had been procured from W. V. Brown's, I was introduced
to my tutor E. D. Stone. His venerable and benevolent
aspect removed my worst fears ; the sight of my spacious
stall in Chamber with its curtain and simple furniture re
assured me further, so that when left to myself at last I was
merely nervous, very nervous. To conceal it I armed myself
with an assurance which I did not feel, and which led me
during the next few days to some ludicrous performances.
Certain of my new companions seemed almost odiously
superior and well informed, having brothers or friends in
the school. Others, if more polished and politic than I,
proved not much wiser as to what might and might not be
done, and our common ignorance became a bond of
sympathy.

c Eton in the Eighties ' and c Playing Fields, 5 by my friend
Eric Parker, describe with such inimitable veracity the com
pany and the environment in which we now found ourselves,
that I need not discuss them at length. In a week we had
learned the ritual of Chamber, our place in the scheme of
things as the lowliest of recognized existences, how the whole
duty of our young lives was to walk humbly in the presence
of all our seniors, and to learn the Wall Game. The teach
ing suffered from one grave defect, perhaps inevitable in the
circumstances. All my Election had passed a high standard.
Yet even the eldest, and I was nearly fifteen, were still fags

SELF AND PARTNERS [1881-1884

and new boys, quite unfitted in the eyes of authority for any
place in the school corresponding to our classical attain
ments. So in Lower Division, to which I and half-a-
dozen or more of my fellows in Chamber were relegated,
we found ourselves put back to text-books of the most
elementary type, which called for little or no preparation.
In this comfortable state we remained for nearly two years.

And we started badly, in the Division of a gentle, fiery and
distinguished scholar, where everybody ragged and rioted
in a way which first astounded and then utterly corrupted
our susceptible minds. Others, including of course that
superb disciplinarian Frank Tarver, might keep us in check
for the moment; but I quickly imitated the idleness and
turbulence round me, to the marked displeasure of my tutor.
A dignified senior, who had taught a whole generation of
boys how to write finished elegiacs, had naturally little
patience with the disturbance which a talkative and idle
new-comer was continually creating in his pupil-room, and
I soon got into his bad books. This was to prove unfortunate.

Slackness and ragging might be possible in some places,
but the football field was not one of them. In my innocence,
I had imagined Eton to be soft and luxurious; I was
speedily undeceived. There was nothing luxurious about
Chamber Game in Jordan, under the critical eye of the
Keepers. If your panting body failed for one moment to
follow up, a kick on the backside recalled you to duty. Once,
only once, this happened to me, and I turned furiously to
avenge the fancied insult. But I had hardly clenched my
fists when the mighty Jenkins, as he trotted forward, just
touched me with his shoulder, and sent me spinning into
the mud. 'Bill Holmes/ he remarked, as he passed on,
'you must learn manners.' A memorable feature of these
games in Jordan was their termination, when we trooped off
to the willows by School Jump to retrieve our jackets and
scarves, and to crowd round old Powell for a drink of the
flat chilly beer which he served to us from a tin can with a
long spout. It was rather nasty really, but like Powell him-

68

1881-1884] CANTERBURY AND ETON

self, with his strange tall hat and velveteens, his gray elf-
locks, his portly person, and still more portly bag of footballs,
the beer was an institution, a sacred libation one might
think, as one gray-trousered player after another tossed the
dregs from his little pewter into the grass.

The joys of the well-ordered kick-about in College Field
were evident from the first. Even though we formed part
of the lowliest and outermost of its concentric circles, we
had the thrilling spectacle of a dozen or more footballs rising
and falling and thudding about us, with the blazered heroes
in the middle, and visitors like Ainger and Cornish and
Edward Lyttelton, who would turn aside from their walks
and join us, regardless of the damage to top-hats and coats
which a muddy ball from a misguided boot was wont to
cause. How surely and strongly and neatly they kicked,
defying it would seem the passage of years. Most thrilling
of all was the sight of a ball soaring so inevitably towards
one's own station that there was a chance of a volley, and
then, if the foot moved as it should, the pleasant thwack, the
slight shock, and the ball sailing over the whole arena.

Compared with this agreeable exercise, the Wall Game
was a hard and exacting science. Great players came to
watch our puny efforts, to impress the tradition of the Wall,
to explain the precise duty of each separate member of a
team, to encourage or reprove, as professional trainers might
do, the youngsters who four or five years later would have
to represent College on St. Andrew's Day. The theory of
the game proved as fascinating as its practice was difficult.
A single chance given to a behind might mean the loss of a
match. At 'third,' where I was set to play, the peril was
constant, but in calx I was usually allotted the delightful job
of helping that all-important being, the furker. To extract,
by delicate art and patient boot-work^ a football from the
midst of a thicket of stout legs tightly clasped around and
upon it, in deep mud and darkness, is a feat to be proud of.
Other deeds may be more spectacular, but none give more
complete satisfaction than this victory of two minds and

69

SELF AND PARTNERS [1881-1884

bodies operating in unison over the massed opposition of a
rival side. Was it not thus that we juniors once defeated the
College team itself, playing 'out of their places' as the
custom was, when George Marshall got a shy and threw a
goal from it? That goal remains as distinctly in my memory
as Mordaunt's famous goal of 1885. The team was so upset
by their defeat that we had to play the match over again,
and were swept out of effective existence.

Football, of a sort, naturally found a place with the more
mythical Eton amusements which were recorded wee-k after
week in c News from the Schools ' by an enterprising boys'
newspaper. To read just before- St. Andrew's Day that ' The
site of "The Wall" has not yet been chosen, but it will
probably be Barnes Pool Bridge wall, which has recently
been widened for the purpose,' was hardly more surprising
than the text supplied of the Eton School Song, with its
references to day boys, 'the Slunch' and prisoner's base.

* Oppidana
Gens urbana
Laudibus fulgebit,
Gens diurna
Sempiterna
Floreat, florebit.
And

Slunna fluat,
Semper ruat
Capti fundamentum,*

This agreeable nonsense, composed by certain light-
hearted members of Sixth Form, and afterwards reprinted
in that rarest of booklets 'Eton as She is Not/ led to more
than one unexpected consequence. Being much richer in
incident than the bald chronicles sent in by more veracious
contributors to the boys' newspaper aforesaid, and far sur
passing them in style, it finally encouraged the Editor of the
paper to pay a visit to Eton. Hasty preparations were made
to^wclcome him. A fictitious College List was printed con-
taming the^ aliases and nicknames which had figured in the
'news,' while we Lower boys spent two days in unravelling

70

1881-1884] CANTERBURY AND ETON

scarves and making woollen tassels for caps; ' tassels' in
the reports being the equivalent for colours. The Editor
was suitably welcomed, entertained in Hall, and successfully
brought through the ordeal of 'Absence ' to a football game
in South Meadow, where the tasselled caps were seen in all
their glory, and we yelled with mock enthusiasm for the
rival teams of ' Field Mice' and Jolly Boys/ He left
delighted ; we were relieved, and all seemed well.

Then, quite suddenly, the contributions from Eton ceased.
It was some years before I learned the reason. S., the
merry and friendly 'conduct' [chaplain], who was privy to
the whole business and thoroughly enjoyed it, happened to
be lunching with a master well known for his subtle scholarly
humour, and in all innocence told him the story. His host,
to the narrator's dismay, exclaimed, "But it is calculated
deceit/ and was for taking immediate punitive action. S.
protested that anything of the sort would be a breach of
confidence; but had to promise in the end that this Eton
'news ' should stop forthwith. Shortly afterwards the paper
itself ceased publication, an event which in our innocence
we attributed to the hoaxing of the Editor. Yet my sub
sequent experiences of journalism make me wonder whether
that Editor was not pleasantly hoaxing us. The nonsense
contributed by Eton sent up his weekly circulation by several
hundreds. To inquire too scrupulously into the causes of
such a profitable increase would have been foolish, and that
Editor was anything but a fool. The card which he left with
my co-fagmaster Sterry on the occasion of his visit bore
the name of 'Mr. Alfred Harinsworth.'

Ragging in school encouraged us to rag elsewhere, in an
impartial way, so that most of us in Chamber had our
peculiarities chastened and brought home to us. Only one
super-logical spirit resented any sort of correction, arguing
that if each unpleasing incident were sufficiently reported to
the authorities, he was bound in the end to attain complete
immunity. In vain did I represent (being myself hand
ignarus mail) that a little casual ridicule or discomfort was

SELF AND PARTNERS [1881-1884

better than the permanent Isolation which his method would
produce. I failed to convince him, and soon found myself
writing out a Georgic, with a company of amateur architects
who had built a spire with his furniture. Other incidents
followed in which I had no part, but then Fate turned on me
with a vengeance.

A race along the corridor of the mathematical schools, a
harmless scrimmage at the end, and the customary outcry of
the logician, brought Johnny Lock on to the scene, and I was
complained of for fighting in school. My tutor, already
vexed by my Idleness In pupil-room, declined to Intervene ;
the Master in College was sympathetic but could not act if
my tutor would not. So, with Bruce and St. Glair Erskine as
'holders down/ I came to the Head and the block. 'Any
excuse? ' asked the Head, in accordance with the ancient
formula. 'Yes, Sir/ said I, prepared with witnesses to my
innocence. "Well/ replied Dr. Hornby, with his wonted
calm, 'I have no time to hear it now'; so swished I was
forthwith.

In the following summer (1884) I entered for the school
Geology Prize, at the cost of some ridicule for my impudence.
But, compared with the standard set two years before by my
uncle Edmund, the papers were absurdly easy. A little
later I was doing Trials in School Library when my good
friend Badger Hale burst upon me, beaming as only he could
beam. ' You've got it, my boy. You've got It!' Then
Boggy Drew met me in the street, and congratulated me
upon being a long way ahead of everyone else. Finally the
Head sent for me to Chambers, and told me that the prize
on this occasion would be divided between myself and a
member of Sixth Form. 'But, Sir/ said I, 'Mr. Drew told
me that I was easily first.' 'You are a little boy of bad
character/ replied Dr. Hornby, 'and if you say any more I
shall take away the prize altogether.' However, my trun
cated award just sufficed to buy me an edition of Gibbon at
Ingalton Drake's, the most sensible prize which I ever chose.

Even then I had not done with my logical neighbour. I

72

h

H
<

1

w

J

1881-1884] CANTERBURY AND ETON

kept well out of his way, and had risen to relative seniority,
when accident again brought me to the brink of disaster. A
musical contemporary was practising singing in his room, a
practice distasteful to my friend Arthur Glutton-Brock. He
suggested that we should quietly erect a pile of baths against
the door, and then call the singer out to be overwhelmed,
like the bad lady. We borrowed accordingly all the baths
set out against the passage wall, and had made our pile when
the logician happened to come upstairs. Seeing that Ms
bath was missing from the row, he went off promptly to
report its loss to the Master in College.

Of course we owned up at once when inquiry followed,
but I was not prepared for the serious tone which Broad-
bent took about our innocent fun, and ventured to say so.
'You do not,' said he, 'appear to realize the gravity of your
position. If I report the matter to the Headmaster, as
perhaps I ought to do, you will have to leave. X is the one

certain winner of the Medal whom Eton has had for

years, and the Headmaster decided long ago that he was to
be kept here at any cost, while, at the first opportunity, an
example could be made of you, as a troublesome boy who
is not likely er to reflect any particular credit upon the
school/

So the gulf of expulsion yawned at my feet. I could only
assure Broadbent earnestly that what had happened was
pure accident, and that, if it could be overlooked, I would
give my word to keep absolutely out of the danger zone in
future, expressing myself so forcibly that he interrupted
with 'Er Go away!' Perhaps he merely intended to
frighten me ; but thanks to his frankness and plain speaking
I became rather less of an unthinking ass than I had previ
ously been. His words, anyhow, swept away in an instant the
whole fanciful universe in which I had hitherto lived. I had
accepted the verdicts of my elders, however unfair they might
seem, as embodying the perfect righteousness which they
preached to us, and as deviating from that lofty ideal only
through imperfect information. It was now evident that

73

SELF AND PARTNERS [1881-1884

Policy, not Justice, was the true arbiter of our destinies, and
expediency would have to be substituted henceforth for
common Christian ethics.

A little self-control and restraint of manner had already
been taught me by our Duce, Merry wood. His eagle eye
overlooked no follies, foibles or shortcomings; his biting
satire gained him obsequious allegiance, and would some
times raise a laugh even from the victim under the lash. As
agile in body as in mind, he was a master of those neat
acrobatics which invest each action, whether on the football
field or elsewhere, with a certain humorous grace ; he re
inforced this agility by a physical strength which made him
a formidable opponent, even when alone. But he seldom
acted alone, having always at his disposal anyone to whom
he chose to beckon; -henchmen on whose obedience he
could count, since any hesitation involved prompt loss of
favour and certain future ridicule. After a time almost
everyone in our Election had been thus elevated, used and
degraded in turn, and though a few might privately resent
humiliation, none ventured to challenge a supremacy so
natural and so complete. He was a man : the rest of us mere
schoolboys.

My loud voice, assurance and untidiness made me a per
petual mark for these barbed arrows, until, in desperation, I
had once more to make resolutions for self-defence. Not
being strong enough to face the opposing force, I fashioned a
rude pair of Indian clubs on the lathe at Preston, and dis
covered swinging them to be not only an exhilarating exer
cise, but one which caused the arms and shoulders to swell
quite visibly. Superstition fortified still further. In a care
less moment the dictator had let slip the words, *I reign
alone, never to be cast down,' a challenge which the gods,
if the classic examples held good, could not overlook.

Sure enough, when I came back ready for battle in
January 1885, the Fates at once took a hand in the business.
On the very first morning of the Half the dictator openly
degraded the clever Sidney, presenting me thereby with an

74

1881-1884] CANTERBURY AND ETON

ally and the wisest of counsellors. Yet even with the over
whelming force of liberators which Sidney collected, our
campaign to make the place safe for mediocrity lasted a full
six months. Indian-club practice did not save me from some
damage at the first encounter, but the public execution,
with grimly dramatic circumstance, of the dictator's two
chief adherents proved to be the turning-point. The revolt
then settled down into a silent, deadly social war, waged in
and out of school with so much propriety, on the part of the
two protagonists, that the end was mutual respect. Both have
since attained the distinction which their characters then
foreshadowed, and the lessons in behaviour received from
these two friends during the conflict were, I believe, more
important than anything else I was taught during my first
two years at Eton. Considering the length and fierceness of
the struggle, the casualties were ludicrous the two public
executions, one black eye, one bloody nose (mine), and one
crumpled top-hat.

75

CHAPTER V

ETON AND RXJSKIN

(1885-1887)

Discovery of 'Modern Painters'; attempts at drawing; the
Library at Windsor Castle; Glutton-Brock as critic and poet;
Lionel Headlam ; fishing with Eric Parker ; Edmond Warre ;
curiosity and religion; scholarship-hunting at Hertford,
Christ's and Brasenose ; my last day at Eton.

THE summer of 1885, the end of my second year at Eton,
found me indolent, slipshod and contented. A little more
money would have been welcome, since the expenses of a
brother at Rossall compelled my allowance to be smaller
than that of anyone else. Yet this did not worry me much ;
I had to set little store by appearances. Certain physical
defects were more annoying. I thoroughly enjoyed football
and cricket, but could develop no special aptitude for either.
I could neither run nor jump. Hard experience had made
me ready with my fists ; but there was now no need to use
them. The wild winds which had raged round my first year
in College were hushed ; the angry deeps of rny Election had
subsided into friendly somnolence. Each of us could go his
own way undisturbed.

Drifting evasively through the appointed channels of
Greek, Latin and Higher Mathematics, without observation
or understanding, I earned from E. D. Stone, Johnny Cole,
Luxmoore and Everard the reputation of being quick, idle,
talkative and rather silly. The science masters, 'Badger'
Hale, Madan and T. C. Porter, were more sympathetic.
Although my precocious affection for geology had not out
lived early discouragement, there did survive from it a vague
apprehension of scientific principle^ of cause and effect,
which led me (often Unwisely) to apply the experimental

1885-1887] ETON AND RUSKIN

method to cricket, and even to the sacred Wall Game. The
'googly J and "leg-theory ' were familiar secrets : I could still
write an essay on e Cool-runners ' or upon ' The Art of
Furking.' To science also, less directly, may be ascribed an
Interest in the construction of ironclads, and in the didactics
of Samuel Smiles. In literature I had not emerged from
the Tennyson stage. My ignorance of music, and the
wonders of my singing in chapel, were as notorious as the
idiotic profiles and scribbles with which I defaced my books
and papers. The ordinary schoolboy ambitions could not
excite one who was neither an athlete nor a scholar ; besides,
life being now so comfortable, it was simplest to take things
as they came, and drift with the stream-
One afternoon, having nothing particular to do, I drifted
into School Library. The old library in Weston's Yard,
with its globes, its cast of The Gladiator, its copy of the
Apollo Belvedere, its ample fireplace, and Bircher its patient,
friendly custodian, had always been a pleasant and handy
refuge, especially in winter, when the fire and the gas com
bined to manufacture a delicious frowst. The frowst indeed
was apt to be so overpowering in the gallery of the place,
that we seldom ventured there in dark weather. But it was
now summer, and it occurred to me to investigate this rarely
visited upper floor. Climbing the iron corkscrew, I went
along all one side of the building without finding a single
book worth looking at. By the far corner, however, a red
cover and a promising title, Jomini's 'Art of War,' challenged
attention; but the contents proved to be dreary reading.
As I replaced the book, my eye was attracted to a neigh
bouring title, ' Modern Painters ' by John Ruskin. I remem
bered Ruskin; he had cursed us at Coniston two years
before. To see what sort of stuff he wrote, I took out a
volume and settled down with it in the window-seat.
Almost immediately I found myself captivated by his powers
of description and invective. But five fat volumes ! What
were the others like? The beauty of the illustrations in
vols. 3 to 5, and their puzzling titles, excited still further

77

SELF AND PARTNERS [1885-1887

curiosity. There was nothing for It but to go through the
whole book and see what the man meant.

Then, as now, I found much of the philosophy incom
prehensible, and skipped it. But the descriptive passages
appealed to my natural bent for the solemn and the
grandiloquent. The geology was sympathetic; the notes
on the structure of trees and clouds wholly novel. I cannot
remember at what point I was struck with the sudden
splendour of a thought : * If no one except Turner has ever
painted landscape as yet, then there's room for you* But
the thought did come, and I proceeded at once to translate
it into action. The simple paints and paper supplied for
drawing maps gave me materials; but what about a sub
ject? I could think of nothing whatever. Still, there was a
woodcut of 'The Vale of Tempe ' in 'The Student's Greece/
so, taking that beauty-spot for a model, I produced, with
infinite labour, a crude little water-colour. I hardly ex
pected to be able to paint all at once, but it was evident,
even to my own partial eye, that I could not even draw.
During the holidays I discovered Ruskin's 'Elements of
Drawing ' in the Preston Free Library, and set myself to
learn on his principles, using Tenniel's illustrations to 'Alice '
for copies, and presenting the results to my family for use
as menu-cards. Yet with all my efforts I could never even
approach the easy grace of my school-fellow Leonard
Cotterill, whose every touch was clean and faultless. Indeed
the first evidence that I had made some sort of progress
was furnished quite unintentionally by Michael Furse, who
stuck up one of my Du Maurier copies in his room, under
the impression that he had found a genuine Cotterill.

'Modern Painters,' in due course, was succeeded by 'The
Seven Lamps of Architecture/ 'The Stones of Venice/ and
by the revealing of my new enthusiasm to others. First
came my uncle Richard in the Library at Windsor. There,
on Sundays, he would bring me out prints by Diirer, draw
ings by Raphael, Holbein and Leonardo (the finest surely
of them all?), the famous Windsor miniatures, and finally

78

1885-1887] ETON AND RUSKIN

the collection of Whistler which he was forming for the
Queen. For two years, nearly every Sunday afternoon was
spent among these masterpieces, in learning the difference
between good workmanship and bad. Incidentally, the
splendours of the Castle, its magnitude, the profound rever
ence accorded to its mistress, and a smile from the Queen
herself as I happened to meet her driving down Keate's
Lane in her little pony-carriage, all served to make me more
than ever a loyal little Conservative.

Next came Arthur Glutton-Brock. That independent
enthusiast, already on the point of passing from Shelley's
fountains of light and music to Swinburne's resounding
ocean, was quick to welcome any interest outside the school
routine. 'Don't you think College is rather a rotten place? '
I remember him asking me. 'It's so beastly respectable.'
There was just a grain of truth in the criticism. Distin
guished from the rest of the school by their gowns and their
separate games, as much as by any communal superiority
in learning, or inferiority of private means, the King's
Scholars, togati or 'Tugs,' when once the antics of childhood
were done with, cultivated habits of self-restraint which dis
couraged any public show of originality in opinion or bear
ing. An Oppidan (and to this tolerance Eton owes many of
its famous names) might be eccentric in his ways and
appearance, or extravagant in his views, just as his fancy
inclined. The Colleger, for the reputation of College, ought
to be neither. Humour he might cultivate, within reason,
but ambition was restricted to the recognized channels
games and classical scholarship. Any other outpouring of
personality was suspect as dubious 'form,' and could be
indulged only in strict privacy. So Brock and I were drawn
together by our respective disreputable pleasures. He intro
duced me to Shelley, and was introduced in turn to Ruskin.

Brock's rugged face would light up, his left arm would saw
the air to emphasize the lilt of the verse, as he declaimed his
favourite passages from "Hellas/ 'Adonais/ or Swinburne's
'Poems and Ballads.' Nor was he content with passive

79

SELF AND PARTNERS [1885-1887

appreciation. When 'England and her Colonies 5 was set as
the theme for the English Verse prize in 1886, most of us
found it uncommonly tough material for poetry. To Brock,
however, it brought the chance of uniting two of his pet
admirations. Disraeli's 'Empire and Liberty' motto was
expanded into a swift-running lyric in the manner of
Shelley, and with so much vigour that it not only won the
prize for him hors concours, but lingered for a long time in
the memory of at least one of his hearers. When the
4 Eton Fortnightly ' was launched under his auspices, in Feb
ruary 1887, it was to Brock's articles and poems that we
turned first. The paper is not, perhaps, so wonderful as we
then thought it, yet Brock is not the only one of the con
tributors who has since made his mark in the world, and
can look back without shame upon his infantile essays in
literature. Fortunately my own efforts were all rejected.
A series of articles on Eton Poets was Brock's chief work
in prose, a series foreshadowing the critical gifts which
became so notable in after-life. At the time, judging from
sundry protests, the criticisms would appear to have been
above the heads of his school audience. Much of the work
was evidently done in haste, as some odd misquotations
prove, but there can be no question about the writer's
sincerity and independence. Even his favourites are ruth
lessly weighed in the balance. He describes, for example,
Swinburne's c Poems and Ballads' as * dangerous reading,
much study of them is like opium-eating . , . giving a
distaste for all other poetry,' and confesses that he himself
has suffered thereby. Yet this indulgence in Swinburne was
responsible for one poem, 'Achilles in Hades' (June soth
1887), which, making every allowance for its derivative
origin, is true poetry. Achilles tells Odysseus that in the
sunless waste of the lower world

' No song of birds there is, and no man hears
The thunder of the seas.
But thou hast heard it, yet thy ears are ringing
With laughter shaken from the windy deep ;
80

1885-1887] ETON AND RUSKIN

Small laughter have we in the land of sleep,
Wherefore, most welcome art thou, comrade, bringing
Long-lost remembrance with thy wave-born hands ;
Almost I hear the ripple on shingly sands
Of the spent wave, the sound of rock-pent streams
Sucked back I hear, and now the free birds play
Fla.shing from crest to crest; now for one day
I know the constant moan, the sudden gleams
Of waters far away.*

In Brock's poetic work this Swinburnian period stands mid
way between his Shelley-like prize poem and the sonnet-
sequence written in the late 'nineties, when he was under
going a strong emotional experience, and had come to
appreciate Shakespeare. Going up in the autumn of 1 887
to New College, where the Wykehamist poet Lionel Johnson
was already famous. Brock to my secret chagrin remained
silent, and nearly twenty years were to pass before the
talent he had first displayed in the 'Eton Fortnightly'
became known all the world over through his contributions
to the 'Times.'

William Morris, red beard, red tie 'and broad pea-jacket,
came to lecture, provoking (deliberately, I'm told) gentle
hisses by his praise of Socialism. F. W. H. Myers, in the
course of a paper on c Nelson,' read Campbell's c Copen
hagen' with memorable beauty. Dr. Hornby's silver
eloquence was equal to both occasions. Most striking of
all was Brandram's rendering of e Much Ado.' No stage
performance I have seen, from the Lyceum upward, held
the audience spell-bound as did this one old gentleman,
with his exquisitely varied mimicry, his humour and his
power.

My messmate and chief confidant at this period was Lionel
Headlam, the youngest of a family of famous scholars. His
roguish humour had caused me no little annoyance in early
days, but, coupled with his physical frailty, it utterly dis
armed the hand of vengeance when the time for punishment
arrived. With just a touch of the minx, to give savour to
Ms charm and good sense, he quickly became the dictator

81

SELF AND PARTNERS [1885-1887

of our joint menage^ and the father-confessor to whom I
carried my troubles and peccadilloes as meekly as my spare
shillings. With Francis Fremantle and F. L. Bland (the
politician and the financier) as successive fags, our break
fasts and teas, though sternly economic, made refreshing
interludes in the daily round. Headlam's delicacy did
not prevent him from getting a place quite early in the
College Wall Eleven, but it increased as time went on, and
to the sorrow of all who knew him, he died shortly after
leaving Oxford.

Another friendship began with fishing. My holiday ex
periences among the carp, roach and eels of Lancashire
made it impossible from the outset to overlook the river of
the Playing Fields. It might be no historic trout-stream
like that which educates the angling Wykehamist, yet the
sluggish waters watched by that queer veteran Sergeant
Leahy, the swifter stream that poured thence right down
to the Old Oak, and the dark pike-haunted purlieus of
Fellow's Pond were an irresistible lure, especially when
B. R. Bambridge, the tackle-maker on Windsor Bridge,
expert and optimist, had enlarged upon their possibilities.
Eton was too tolerant to suppress fishermen. It merely
classed them with eccentrics, who were best left to their
own unaccountable pleasures. No Collegers apparently
indulged in so dubious a sport. But in Eric Parker I found
a fellow-enthusiast, in whose company it was easy to make a
beginning when we were not needed for games.

Parker naturally caught most. The Editor of the ' Field '
has proved by his writings that he has an exceptional eye
for fisheS, as for birds and beasts. He had also the more
daring spirit. It was with him that I crossed, in all inno
cence, the forbidden railway bridge to catch, coram omnibus,
in a scug cap, fat roach upon the flooded meadows right
opposite the Playing Fields. I was with him in his disconcert
ing effort to catch pike with goldfish. But Parker soon
attained to the dignity of the Shooting Eight, and then I
had to angle alone. But in my last year accident or example

82

1885-1887] ETON AND RUSKIN

brought quite a little group of reputable seniors to the
waterside, and fishing ceased for the time to be the plebeian
business it had been in the days when we bargained with
Sergeant Leahy for rods (such rods !) and bait at threepence
an hour. I remember vividly how Vincent Yorke, returning
one evening from Middle Club, waded into the swift stream
in pads and wicket-keeping gloves, to lift out a roach of
about a pound in weight which I had hooked on a single
hair and could not bring to bank. Getting into College,
rather late, my triumph was dashed by my house-master's
greeting. 'What? Fishing!! You are too old for such
filthy and childish pursuits.' And that, no doubt, was the
general opinion.

Had we been able to adorn our disregard of convention
by the magic plea of Thames Trout we might have been
forgiven. But that noble quarry even then had become
almost a legend, and only once did I come across a speci
men of the breed. Walking through the Playing Fields one
evening, I was attracted to the bank of Fellow's Eyot by the
sight of bending rod in the hands of a Lower boy. He had
hooked a Thames Trout with a worm, and was so much at a
loss what to do, that he handed over his little 8-foot split-cane
to me. Yet when the disparity between its bulk, some two
pounds, and the tiny rod had lost its novelty, the fish pro
vided no single thrill, proving to be a lumpish, unenter
prising beast, who was got to the bank in two minutes. I
believe that, like a prig, having an idea that three pounds
was the Thames limit of size, I insisted upon his return to
the water. His muddy brown colour suggested that he
would anyhow have been uneatable.

These experiences came only as occasional intervals in the
routine of football and cricket. To the Wall Game we were
dedicated; the Field Game was a strenuous duty; my
ambitions in both were checked and ended by two bouts of
water-on-the-knee. Cricket was generally a more casual
relaxation. But in 1 885-6, under the rule of H. J. Mordaunt,
backsliding was impossible. We were proud 0f him, for he

83

SELF AND PARTNERS [1885-1887

was Captain of the Eleven. But when he deigned to appear
in College Game, It was rather a paralysing honour to have
to try to play the bowling which had beaten Winchester,
and to send down one's feeble off-breaks to one who was soon
to make a century in the c Varsity ' Match. Like the Homeric
Achilles he did not suffer gladly, but he could be generous
too. I have seen him pull up In the middle of the pitch,
when compiling a century, to call 'Well fielded! 3 to a
tremulous mid-on, who from sheer fear of funking had
managed to stop a terrific smack. He possessed, of course,
the infernally straight eye of the Prooslan Bates. After
caning me once for some trivial horse-play, he claimed that
each of the statutory seven strokes had hit the same check
on my trousers, a claim which I quite Independently veri
fied. Luckily I was pretty tough, and there is a way of
folding even a thin white shirt into a passable buffer.

Mordaunt was the single Colleger of the time who played
for the School in the Field. At the Wall his record was
unique. The famous goal which we saw him throw on
St. Andrew's Day 1885 was only one of many notable per
formances ; indeed a certain left foot volley In the first half
of that match, with the ball slithering down the brickwork,
had already almost exhausted our faculty of admiration.
That superb kick remains as firmly fixed on the retina of
memory as Mordaunt's subsequent jump from the bully in
Good Calx, and the overhand bowling action with which
he sent the ball thudding against the blue door. His
intellectual gifts, in one direction at least, were no less
remarkable. Marindin, through whose hands so many of
the best Eton scholars had passed, once told me that
Mordaunt's Greek Iambics were the best he had ever known
a schoolboy to write.

But the dominating figure of my time at Etoxi was Edmond
Warre. Till the beginning of my last year at school I had
played games, and fished, and pottered away at drawing and
desultory reading, without any thought for the future, or any
present distinction, since the twice-twisted knee robbed me

84

1885-1887] ETON AND RUSKIN

of the chance of playing on St. Andrew's Day. But the great
and genial Warre did not overlook the humblest members of
his Division. He put us at ease by his dinner-parties, he
laughed and jested with us in school, till we came quickly to
look upon him as one whose friendship and high ideals were
alike irresistible. His mighty figure in itself was impressive
in his doctor's gown ; when he mounted a horse as Colonel
of the Volunteers, it was magnificent. Prince Alexander of
Bulgaria, fresh from the victory of Slivitzna, came over from
Windsor to inspect the Eton Corps,, watched by the pretty
Princess May of Teck (our present Queen). Alexander, a
big, handsome, bearded man, looked every inch the hero that
he then was ; yet Warre, when he put the Corps through its
evolutions, fully held his own as one no less accustomed to
high command. 'Sir,' said the Prince, 'you have the voice
of a Field-Marshal.'

Warre's native military talent was still more conspicuously
exhibited in the planning and execution of the torchlight
procession to Windsor Castle at the 1887 Jubilee. Rumour
had it that the great idea of this torchlight display, and of its
musical accompaniment, was revealed to him in a dream.
The elaborate manoeuvres which he invented involved the
drilling of the whole school for three weeks. Not all the boys,
nor all the masters who led them, had any experience of
military discipline, so that our training had its comic aspect.
But Warre's enthusiasm carried the thing through, and 'on
the night' our evolutions in and by the Quadrangle at
Windsor went off without a hitch. Then, like a triumphant
army, we marched back in fours along the High Street,
whistling 'John Peel,' while the long serpent of torches
flared and guttered and reeked of paraffin. Among the
guests at the Castle was the Kaiser, who asked, I was told,
one of his neighbours how long the school had been drilling.
When the answer 'Three weeks ' was given, he was at first
incredulous. Then the words 'It would take us six months *
slipped out, and were remembered.

When I reached the Head's Division, that discerning man

85

SELF AND PARTNERS [1885-1887

soon saw that my scholarship was not up to the current Eton
standard, and explained frankly that it was useless for me
to try for one of the scholarships at King's. With luck, my
general information might pull me through at Oxford, where
incapacity to write such things as Greek Prose might not be
immediately fatal. So, very late in the day, I made frantic
efforts to run through Homer and Virgil, my industry being
stimulated by gratitude to Warre, unpleasant speculation as
to my future if I failed, and by a severe fright.

On the first evening of the Winter Half, the irrepressible
Battersby invited me to his room and shut the door. He had
just been to Paris with his people, and had brought back
some souvenirs odd numbers of 'La Vie Parisienne' with
cartoons by "Mars, 9 startling enough to the innocent eye,
but mild compared with a dozen very French photographs.
He had just taken these from his box and handed them to
me, when the door opened and in walked our house-master.
The box lid snapped down safely enough on the illustrated
paper, but I had barely time to slip those infernal photo
graphs under my coat, where they made a shifting bundle,
nearly an inch thick. An uneasy, interminable conversation
followed. My arm was fixed to niy side, to keep the slippery
things from falling and bringing us both to perdition : the
visitor felt there was something wrong, but couldn't tell
what. When at last I ventured to make a break for my own
room, it involved walking under his eye all down the
passage, with my burden slithering lower and lower. But
my luck held. Nothing actually fell, and the fright cured me
once for all of any such curiosity.

Most of us, as a matter of fact, without being obtrusively
pious, and allowing for the natural exuberances of adoles
cence, had decent ideals of conduct. We might succumb at
times, as the young will do, to bursts of devotional enthusi
asm, yet we kept them to ourselves, noting, perhaps, that
they were generally followed by unsatisfactory reactions, so
that it was really safer not to take things too seriously. My
people had always hoped that I might follow in my father's

86

1885-1887] ETON AND RUSKIN

footsteps by taking orders. Though I had myself no sort of
calling to that way of life, it was impossible to overlook
altogether the doctrinal side of religion. Divinity formed a
part, quite a considerable part, of our school-work, and in
this, contrary to what may be the general impression, the
Etonians of my time were, I fancy, at least as well grounded
as the boys from any other public school.

Divinity, too, figured largely in the competition for the
Newcastle Scholarship, and all my contemporaries who
wished for distinction had to take it seriously. I tried like
the rest, but found most of it utterly dull. Among the set
books, however, for the 1886-7 examination was Lightfoofs
'Galatians,' and this proved unexpectedly fascinating. I
had hitherto taken the Bible for granted, without any
thought of its relation to history proper, so that it was
illuminating to see, for the first time, how Christianity had
developed from a Judaistic sect into a world-wide religion.
Gradually and inevitably followed recognition of the man
to whom the change was due : the zealous Pharisee, with
whose acceptance of a religious revival among the peasants
of a remote province originates the whole ethical pretext, if
not the actual fabric, of our Western civilization. The
Christians might have remained as local and obscure as the
Ebionites, if a certain Saul, when he fell on the Damascus
road, had happened to break his neck.

The duty of keeping order in College was generally simple
enough ; and excellent training. Crimes and punishments
were usually debated at Sixth Form supper, so that hasty
verdicts could be modified, if necessary, before final judg
ment was pronounced. Being less distinguished athletically
than a group below us, we had to hold the reins of discipline
discreetly. Since I occupied the room next to Chamber, it
was my special function to keep the fifteen Lower-boy
occupants in order. For this a reputation for ferocity was
quite enough. In twelve months I caned nobody, and had
only to set two hundred 'lines.' Reasonable licence we
allowed. Once I was really startled by finding a very small

8?

SELF AND PARTNERS [1885-1887

Colleger In my room, kneeling at my arm-chair, apparently
absorbed in devotion. Investigation proved him to be a
life-like fiction, made out of my top-hat, my gown, and a
pair of boots, with my Liddell and Scott for a body, while
the impudent Frankenstein was my own fag. Even a dis
tinguished political career has not made him much more
respectful. Only once was I faced with an emergency, when
summoned in haste to stop a considerable uproar in Lower
Passage. At the harsh sound of my voice the roysterers fled.
Only the very biggest of them all remained to dance like a
Jabberwock round me. The good Bishop must forgive me ;
there was a resemblance. To tell the giant, and he was an
eminent giant even then, that he should be caned on the
spot if he didn't go to his room, needed all the prestige of
Sixth Form, and a little of the bruiser's desperate fatalism.
Luckily for me, he went.

In the winter of 1886 the business of scholarship-hunting
began with an attempt at Hertford, where the scholarships
were more valuable than elsewhere at Oxford. It was bitter
weather, but the loan of a fur-lined coat and sound boots,
from my messmate Headlam, enabled me to face the chill
airs and stone floor of the Divinity Schools, and to get as far
as the final dozen before being rejected. Staying at 'The
King's Arms,' my temporary abode, was a candidate from
Norwich, with whom I struck up an acquaintance. Though
no finished scholar, he had a determination to succeed which
made me certain that I should hear of him again. Sure
enough, when I next met him he was Sir Ernest Wild, the
Recorder of London.

My great-uncle Charles Swainson, who had been a splen
did friend to my father and mother, was at this time Master
of Christ's ; so it seemed good, after my failure at Oxford,
that I should give Cambridge a chance. My private adviser
was the Rev. H. Henn, then a Preston curate and afterwards
Bishop of Burnley. A Trinity Hall man, he had a fierce
contempt for Oxford and all its works, maintaining that
Harper, the Principal of Jesus, was the one person who

88

1885-1887] ETON AND RUSKIN

propped the pillars of that rotten University. But about
Christ's he was dubious : the College was poor and could not
afford to give a scholarship, except to a certain First in the
Tripos. The event proved him to be right. The papers set
were the stiffest I have ever seen; and I found among my
fellow-competitors one really first-rate scholar. To him they
offered an Exhibition of 30 a year ; my place was twelfth
out of fourteen. Cambridge, as Warre had already pointed
out, was clearly not the University for me.

Being now faced with total failure, it was necessary to plod
on blindly at books during the Easter Half, economizing the
leisure usually spent in football by going out to throw the
hammer for half-an-hour every day. Hammer-throwing is
one of the dullest events to watch from afar on a sports-
ground : as an exercise it is quite the reverse. The ponderous
metal responds so perfectly to each nicety of rhythm and
swing, that the thrower seems to wield a power much greater
than his own, a sensation particularly gratifying to those of
indifferent physique, especially if the throw be made, in the
mighty CotterilPs fashion, with a single turn of the body. The
sight of a burly person being whirled round time after time, like
a teetotum, is rarely impressive, and may be unprofitable as
well as undignified if the ground happens to be slippery.

Looking back at those many weary hours spent with Legg,
a friend and fellow-sufferer, over text and lexicon, I feel we
were unlucky in living before the right use of translations was
encouraged. No doubt our drudgery provided us with a
vocabulary, but it did not teach us to catch the finer points
of the authors with whom we wrestled. Had good transla
tions been available, and permitted to those who were past
the stage of Dr. Giles's 'Key to the Classics,' our reading
would not only have been more extensive, but it would have
been far more accurate and intelligent. I had not inherited
my grandfather's gifts as a linguist. The acquisition of any
alien tongue was always an immense mechanical labour, and
the best intentions were apt to die away in distaste or
drowsiness.

89

SELF AND PARTNERS [1885-1887

The last chance for a scholarship, and therewith for the
supposed advantages of a University education, came in the
summer of 1887 ; but I was at a loss to choose between the
members of the big group of Colleges University, Exeter,
Oriel, Brasenose and Christ Church which were proffering
their wares. The question was settled by a chance remark
of my sporting mentor, the Rev. John Wilson Pedder, as
notable for his genial good sense as for his proficiency with
rod and gun. 'Go up to Brasenose/ said he, 'and fish the
Windrush. You'll never see anything like it again.' On
scrutinizing the Brasenose offer, it appeared that certain
Exhibitions were reserved primarily for persons of small
private means, who had been born in Lancashire. These
heaven-sent conditions I could fulfil so down went my name
for this humble contest.

The sight of Oxford in the summer added further encour
agement. Even the journey thither was embroidered by the
company of a Town Council, fresh, very fresh, from a
Jubilee lunch at Windsor Castle, and full also of anecdotes
unmunicipal and unrepeatable. At Oxford there was a fair
on Port Meadow, which bold spirits could attend in the
evening ; there was a merry company at meals in the College
Hall; there were one or two kindly dons with whom we
could talk at ease from arm-chairs in the front Quad.
Among the candidates was a Wykehamist, Doughty, who
many years later met fame and death at Gallipoli. Now he
delighted me with his mischievous eye like a poacher's, and
his tales of the Itchen trout. This friendly atmosphere, a
marked contrast to the chilly isolation of Cambridge, was
not confined to Brasenose. It invaded and enlivened even
the examination itself.

The papers set before us in Christ Church Hall rexcept
for a quite fiendish opening to the lines set for Iambics
appeared like so many genial invitations to the intelligence,
a welcome relief from the heart-breaking grammatical gym
nastics on which pedants depend for the finding of talents
like their own. Thus encouraged to show one's mettle, it

9

1885-1887] ETON AND RUSKIN

was possible to scribble away at ease, to risk a short nap to
refresh the mind, and then, in the last few minutes, to run
through one's MS. with a fresh eye, and correct the more
obvious blunders. Among my fellows, this habit of openly
dozing got me the credit of being a confirmed idler. But it
proved effective, for a telegram came to me at Eton shortly
afterwards : c Elected second scholarship Brasenose congratu
lations Bussell.' Doctor Bussell told me afterwards that, on
my papers, I was second in the entire group of 120 candi
dates ; he could not understand why I had put my name
down only for a minor Exhibition. A little later, when he
had seen the ordinary standard of my work, he wondered
that I should have been elected at all.

Eton, at Easter, had placed me more justly as nineteenth
in the examination for .the Newcastle Scholarship. Accident
now, though it could not redeem my intellectual credit, did
me a very substantial service. The Tall Mall Gazette, 5
among its multifarious activities, was giving prominence to
the respective academic successes of the chief public schools.
At the head of the list stood St. Paul's, under the famous
Walker, with eleven scholarships to its credit. My little
success at Oxford happened to bring Eton level with St.
Paul's, and so was particularly gratifying to the authorities.
Among the properties of the school, advertised but unknown,
were certain c Goodall Exhibitions, to which deserving boys
are nominated.' I was doubtful whether Dr. Hornby would
even now consider me a deserving boy. But I needed any
subsidy I could get, so with the help of my tutor, Johnny
Cole, I sent in an application. It was promptly granted,
and I could go up to Oxford without the fear of putting an
intolerable strain upon the family funds.

Beyond that point, the future was too nebulous to be
worth considering. Most of my contemporaries had long
since settled their vocations in life, and were already looking
forward, with the help of family advice and influence, to
the Army or the Civil Service, to the learned professions, to
big business, or to politics. I had no such family experience

9 1

SELF AND PARTNERS [1885-1887

to direct me, nor the very least inclination to take orders,
the one course which would really have pleased my mother.
My interest in geology had long ago been stifled. My
experiments in writing had all been heavy, ridiculous fail
ures ; my little drawings, though they amused me more, I
knew to be equally contemptible. I had proved myself a
second-rate scholar and a fourth-rate athlete ; a mastership
in some minor preparatory school was the utmost I could
expect. The prospect did not disturb me. I was fit for
nothing better.

Meanwhile existence for a member of Sixth Form was
made uncommonly pleasant. I still recall a delightful
dinner with Mr. E. L. Vaughan, where A. C. Benson, with
perhaps more eloquence than accuracy, held forth on art;
and others where Edmond Warre, laying aside the robes of
authority, became the most jovial of hosts, and opened our
eyes to the ways and thoughts of the outside world. On
another unforgettable day, Headlam, Tommy Lewis and I
were granted the privilege of rowing up to Maidenhead, of
dining, discreetly you may be sure, at a riverside hotel, and
of loafing down-stream through the twilight to the Brocas.
College cricket, at this time, being in a poor way, the more
strenuous among us consoled ourselves first with single-
wicket games, and then with lawn-tennis, a novelty in more
than one sense when played on the nubbly bit of grass by
the river, just beyond Sheep's Bridge. And, of course,
there was always the fishing.

Had I been no sentimentalist, I might still have found it
just a little melancholy to bid farewell to this friendly
sheltered life; its majestic setting, and its historic associa
tions. But all such appropriate regrets were driven clean
out of my head by the sudden appearance of my good uncle
Edmund on my very last afternoon. He had been respon
sible for my coming to Eton, and wished to see before I
left how the experiment had worked. Unluckily that
enthusiastic geologist was famous for his neglect of outward
appearances. * The best fellow in Lancashire, and the worst-

92

1885-1887] ETON AND RUSKIN

dressed man/ so an old friend once described him. On this
occasion he had surpassed himself. Accustomed as I was
to his normal untidiness, I got a distinct shock at the sight
of the deplorable bowler descending over his ears, and the
grubby ragged raincoat, wherein he was duly piloted by
embarrassed affection all round the school in the summer
sunshine. When we had made our final progress through
the smart crowd of loungers up-town, and had reached the
station, he suddenly said, c You wouldn't suppose, to look
at me, that I was carrying over 30,000 in my pocket to be
delivered in London to-morrow? No one would think I
was worth robbing ? ' I assured him fervently that he need
have no fear on that score.

93

CHAPTER VI

BRASENOSE

(1887-1889)

A tour in Scotland; pictures at Manchester and Preston; carp
and eels at Kirkham; friends and dons at Brasenose; Dr.
Butler; Dr. Bussell; Walter Pater; the Rev, A. Chandler;
boxing and other exercises; sketching and collecting; the
Windrush; offer from Mr. Rivington.

THE occupations of my last year at Eton had been too
anxious and too strenuous to leave leisure for the pursuit of
art, except during the few weeks when I was laid up with
a twisted knee. Now several factors combined to remove
disabilities and encourage me to play with water-colours.
In the first place, I did not look well and was sent to a
clever Preston doctor to be overhauled. He reported over
taxed strength, and imminent risk of my father's lung
trouble developing, unless I was more moderate in every
sort of physical exertion. For example, when I went up to
Oxfof d, I was not to row. I wondered whether we seniors
in College did not really play rather too much football
(seven games or so weekly) during the Winter Half. None
the less, thinking him an alarmist, I did not pass on his
opinion to my people ; but it was to be sadly justified a
year or two later in my brother's person.

Then, for a change of air, we had a trip to Scotland with
my mother and a friend, Mrs. Inman, who had taken a
lively interest in my efforts at drawing. The scenes on that
journey were a revelation. They began with the Shap fells
showing dark and huge against the barred sky of early
morning: later we saw the mists on the Clyde gradually
illumined and dissipated by the sun ; then we were enchanted
by the transparent western sea, its filmy inhabitants all

94

1887-1889] BRASENOSE

showing clear in the warm afternoon light. From Oban,
our first stopping-place, I went out and made my first sketch
from nature near Dunolly Castle. I found water-colour work
in the open air to be such a troublesome business that, when
we had crossed among the sheep in a tossing, splashing ferry
boat to Kerrera, I tackled the little tower of Gylen in pencil
only. Finding pencil much less time- was ting, than colour,
I continued the practice. Over Loch Linnhe lay the hills
of Morven and of Mull; they looked like a succession of
Turner sketches as the clouds streamed and drifted across
their shadowy contours. We naturally walked to the head
of Glencoe, and miscalculating our time, had to run all the
last seven miles back to Ballachulish from fear of missing the
'Mountaineer.' The wretched boat was an hour and a
quarter late, so for that period we sat on the pier kicking
our heels, cooling our bodies, and blessing Mr. David Mac-
Brayne. But the food provided on the boat proved so excel
lent that we could bear no malice. From Dalmally, we
tackled Ben Cruachan, to be defeated at last by mist
when close to the very summit. Each of these excursions
yielded one or two little pencil - drawings four or five
inches square, to be finished at home and coloured from
memory.

When we reached Killin, the scenery of Loch Tay excited
us less than the sight of the Dochart, streaming among rocks
and pot-holes under the bridge below the fir-topped island.
To fish became more desirable than to draw ; so at a linen-
draper's I purchased for three shillings a stained rod, said
to be greenheart, a few yards of line, a cast and a few flies.
Several days passed before I could get out a passable line,
but in the end, by crouching or lying flat on the rocks, I was
able to deceive salmon-parr, and once actually lifted a half-
pounder on to the stone which was my foothold, but alas !
he got off into the water as I unhooked him. Nevertheless,
when we left Killin I felt we had passed a sort of angling
Rubicon. Henceforth, in a sort of way, I could throw a fly.
That three-shilling rod, too, when fitted for a winch, was to

95

SELF AND PARTNERS [1887-1889

kill several hundred fish, before passing, dusty but unbroken,
to the corner where derelicts repose.

Callander and the Trossachs, even Stirling and Edinburgh,
are memories relatively faint, although posters announcing
Irving as * Hamlet/ at Edinburgh, led to the hope that we
might stay on one day more and see the famous man. But
my cautious mother, judging that even Irving's name and
the connexion with Shakespeare would not reconcile my
grandfather to our indulging in a theatre, decided that it
would be safer to renounce the tempting prospect ; so back
we came. This Puritanic severity was shortly afterwards
relaxed. We were permitted occasionally to watch the
efforts of such touring companies as might visit the Theatre
Royal, Preston, but their performances were not calculated
to arouse enthusiasm for the stage, even though it was half-
forbidden fruit.

The ideas of light and colour which Scotland had inspired
were quickly reinforced by seeing the pictures in the Man
chester Jubilee Exhibition. Hitherto my single source of
artistic nourishment had been the little Newsham collection,
crowded at this time into two or three small rooms in
Preston Town Hall, which, with all its merit as a fine
specimen of Gilbert-Scott-Gothic, was singularly ill-adapted
for a picture-gallery. A vivid work by J. F. Lewis, several
fiery landscapes by Linnell, and above all, the Arundel print
of the Adoration of the Lamb attracted me most. The pictures
collected at Manchester were far more notable, and war
ranted three excursions, a great effort for those days. Here
I was introduced to the Pre-Raphaelites, to Rossetti's vivid
colour-patterns, and to Millais' Autumn Leaves, which seemed
then the most desirable of all, and has even now lost but
little of that first enchantment. Of the larger works I was
impressed by Poynter's little-known decorative paintings
dealing with the legfend of the Dragon of Wantley, and more
particularly by Leighton's Hercules wrestling with Death. I
have not seen the picture for many years, but surely it is far
above the average of Victorian products in the classical mode?

96

1887-1889] BRASENOSE

With all these fresh matters for speculation and experi
ment, I stippled away happily on my little scraps of What
man. This occupation at first was naturally thought by
practical uncles to be mere idling, but the single expostula
tion which I happened to overhear was dealt with very
decisively by my mother. * It does no harm ; it keeps him
out of mischief, and I intend to encourage it.' She herself
had drawn and painted a little, many years before, under
my father's guidance, and her natural eye for the picturesque,
both in hill scenery and in the smoke and flame of the indus
trial Midlands, had doubtless some effect in directing my
attention to similar themes. A view of the factories at
Warrington as seen from the train at evening was my first
'Industrial' experiment. In the winter, on the way back
from watching football at Deepdale, we passed the skeleton
of a burned-out cotton-mill, rising black and gaunt from
the water; a vision which has always remained in my
memory, but which I could never turn into a satisfactory
picture.

From time to time we were entertained at Kirkham by a
sort of step-great-aunt, Mrs. Langton Birley, a clever, kindly,
masterful old lady whom we loved and obeyed. Her fac
totum, Wilson the butler, had also won our hearts in child
hood by his many tricks, our respect by his versatile talent.
During this summer my brother and I were staying at Carr
Hill, playing tennis on the lawn after lunch, when Wilson
came out to make some announcement about meals. He
watched us for a moment : then, picking up a racket, offered
to play the two of us, and won a love game too, by means of
a fast underhand service. As he retired he expressed the
hope that our fishing, our chief occupation on this visit,
would be more successful than our tennis. He would bring
out a basket before lunch on the following day, to fetch our
catch for his chickens. Now the mill-ponds at Kirkham
were almost virgin water, and we had possibly been a little
proud of catching twenty or thirty carp and roach that
morning. But this challenge put us on our mettle, and we

97

SELF AND PARTNERS [1887-1880

&. / j

extracted a promise that Wilson would carry all our catch
back to the house.

Furnishing ourselves with a double allowance of bread for
paste, we set forth early and fished with extra care. The
carp bit well, and presently a small roach came to my
hook. Disdaining such small fry, I put him back and he
wobbled off over the top of the water three or four yards
away. There came a flash in the depths, and from them
serpentined up a great eel, all green and silver and some
five feet long, seized the unlucky roach by the middle as a
pike would do, and went back into the shadows. There
was no time to deal with him then : our business was carp-
catching. At last this pleasant corner among the water-
lilies seemed exhausted, and we turned back to the great
steaming pond in the middle of the mill-yard, which was
reputed to contain the largest fish of all. Soon we were
battling with them; once or twice their rushes broke our
tackle ; then a foreman came to beg us to stop. Every door
and window in the great buildings round us was crowded
with watchers who had left their looms, and could not be
induced to go back.

But we had done enough. When our friend Wilson
appeared, carrying in misplaced derision a huge clothes-
basket, he got a shock. My brother's total was 38 carp,
mine was 47 ; few were under lb., eight were well over
i lb., and one was some 2| Ibs. Wilson had to cry off his
bargain it was half-a-mile or more to the house but as
compensation he gave us directions to find the pike at Wrea
Green, some three miles off, a monster which devoured
water birds, broke all anglers' tackle, and was credibly
reported to weigh over 20 pounds. Here was adventure
indeed for the morrow, when we had settled the problem
suggested by the great eel.

That evening we set five stout night-lines, baiting them
with dead roach. The next morning three were found
twisted and broken, the others each held an eel of about
2 pounds a disappointing result. Borrowing a bucket

98

1887-1889] BRASENOSE

from the mill, we proceeded to catch six or eight roach
(they came to the hook like minnows), and then carried
our splashing load between us, under a blazing August sun,
over the infernal interminable cobble-stones of Kirkham
and the dusty high road to Wrea Green. There we fished
all through the long summer day, up and down the big
pond to which we were directed, without the semblance of
a 'run/ until the approach of the dinner hour compelled
us to empty our bucket and hurry back. We might have
done better had we devoted the day (our last) to those
giant eels. I have often wondered whether, like most of the
Lancashire mill-fish, they succumbed to poisonous lubri
cants. As for the Wrea Green pike, he was found dead,
apparently from starvation, in the following spring; his
wasted remains weighed only 8 J Ibs.

All this time the usual crop of family speculations sur
rounded my future at Oxford. Only one of them caused
me some little anxiety. By an odd coincidence, the senior
scholarship at Brasenose had been gained by that very same
Cripps, whose success at Winchester five years earlier had
led my people to send me in for a scholarship at Eton. Our
common acquaintances, in consequence, leaped to the con
clusion that we should shortly meet and become friends. In
reality, nothing is more certainly calculated to breed sus
picion and dislike than such premature recommendation.
I already loathed the name of one cousin (who proved when
I met him to be delightful), because his academic triumphs
were constantly held up to me for an example. Still more
ghastly was the case of two other cousins, whom I was asked
to befriend on their coming to Eton. One youth met me
with a self-sufficiency which at least had the merit of excusing
further intercourse ; the other developed a simple dog-like
fidelity which became quite embarrassing.

Life at Brasenose started officially with Chapel, and there,
exchanging names before the service, I discovered Cripps to
be my good-looking neighbour, cool and remote, but with a
twinkle in his eye. In course of the service, the senior scholar

99

SELF AND PARTNERS [1887-1889

of a previous year, now a well-known member of the Fly-
Fishers 9 Club, stepped out to read the Lesson. He stood a
long time at the Lectern, getting redder and redder and
turning the pages of the Bible this way and that. At last
he started bravely, only to be pulled up at once by a high-
pitched voice from the Vice-Principal's desk ; the lesson he
was reading was not the right one. 'Please, Sir,' he
answered, 'the page isn't in the Book, Sir,' and went on
firmly with his chapter. This pleasing incident broke down
any remains of diffidence between us. Cripps and I had
coffee together after Hall, and then adjourned to the rooms
of an Eton contemporary whom I had recognized at the
freshmen's table.

With him we found another freshman, whose rather simple
face concealed, as we discovered later, no little shrewdness
and common sense. Whisky was produced and whist pro
posed. I drew Cripps for partner. What points should we
play? 'Oh!' said Cripps, laughing, c the usual thing I
suppose? Pound points and a fiver on the rubber.' His
perilous jest was taken seriously by our opponents; I was
too raw and timid to make a protest; and so that night
mare game began. I made a vow that, if Providence would
only deliver me from the ruin that threatened my very first
night at Oxford, I would never again play cards for money.
And Providence must have heard the prayer. I had never
less than five trumps in my hand and sometimes seven;
victory was inevitable even for a duffer. The others played
well (both, I found, were practised hands), but could do
nothing against my luck. Their discomfort as the score
steadily rose became unpleasantly evident. Finally the
simple one rapped out, 'Here, I'm not going on with this.
What do we owe you? 1 'Fifty-two points at a penny,'
replied Cripps to my intense relief, and the words were
hardly spoken before each had whipped out the silver on to
the table. I still wonder what would have happened if the
luck had been on their side !

Brasenose, 'Good old B.N.C/ as others termed it, had a
100

1887-1889] BRASENOSE

character of its own for festive good-fellowship. As Balliol
enlisted clever heads, so B.N.C. enlisted stout legs and
arms. Matriculation was not made unduly difficult for
deserving athletes. Yet a certain standard was maintained.
For example, in my time, a well-known Eton oarsman was
refused admittance. 'He couldn't spell/ explained the
apologetic examiner; 'he could hardly even write his own
name; we had to draw the line somewhere.' The College
numbered only about 120, and then owed its repute to five
or six famous rowing men, a great footballer, and to the
Captain of the Oxford XL Behind them came a dozen
stout secondary performers, all being reinforced and, in
season, applauded by some sixty vigorous, lively young
Philistines. The more active scholars kept in touch with
this central group ; a company tolerant of the genial duffer,
merciless to the prig. Brasenose has never been famous for
imparting the Oxford voice and manner.

I duly put my name down for rowing, but, when weighed,
was judged too light for the 12-stone average of a Brasenose
torpid. Next I tried football. The College then had but
little need for it, and practice involved going alone to the
Parks, to play aimless Association with a crowd of strangers.
This futile dissipation of energy soon palled, and left me
free to go my own way with Cripps. He, though naturally
a fine athlete, was debarred alike from rowing and football
by a damaged ankle, so that, for the moment, he had to
seek air and exercise in other directions.

Of the Principal, * Toby ' Watson, a retiring Ciceronian,
we naturally saw very little; but the well-beloved Vice-
Principal, C. B. Heberden, lived on my staircase, and was
about our path continually, a kindly scrupulous director of
lectures and an uncommonly fine pianist. The good-looking
Bursar, A. J. Butler, appeared first as the setter of Shake
speare's Sonnets, and the like severities, for Greek or Latin
Verse, and as an austere critic of the trash that resulted.
Gradually we came to know his charming wife and young
family, his taste as a connoisseur, and his enthusiasm for

101

SELF AND PARTNERS [1887-1889

sport. He showed us the hidden treasures of the University
Galleries, including the drawings by Turner and Ruskin in
the Ruskin Drawing School: he was able to verify Willy
Pedder's reference to the Windrush, and hinted that one
day, perhaps, we might be allowed to visit the river,

Latin Prose was supervised by Doctor Bussell, already a
notable Oxford figure, with his eyeglass and dandified air,
his smart riding-breeches and equally smart repartees ; his
phenomenal knowledge of philosophy and political history,
of silver Latin and of stocks and shares; his precocious
Doctorate in music and his singing of nigger-songs in an
amazing falsetto treble. To rne he was kindness itself.
Deploring my complete ignorance of grammar and of style,
he set himself one day to show me by the example of Tacitus,
taken sentence by sentence, what literary expression really
involved ; emphasis in just the right place, with due regard
to verbal assonances and variety of form. It was the best
lesson I ever had, and made me feel how utterly wrong and
unhelpful was the system on which I had been taught at
Canterbury and Eton, the mechanical grinding at grammar
and vocabulary with no comprehension of the essential thing
the precise and rhythmical use of words.

Looking back upon that remarkable half-hour, I have
sometimes wondered whether its exceptional quality was not
derived, in part at least, from Dr. BusselPs constant com
panion, Walter Pater. Pater's appearance at the time of my
coming to Brasenose differed considerably from that which
some three years later became familiar in Kensington.
There he tripped along in a smart top-hat and black jacket,
with stiff clipped moustache, neatly rolled umbrella and
dog-skin gloves. But for the dreamy fixity of his gray eyes
he might have been a retired major in the Rifle Brigade. At
Oxford his hair was left to grow rather long, his moustaches
to droop, his walk was a paddle, and the general effect that
of a foreign musician, or possibly an organist. He took little
part in College affairs, except to look over the essays of
seniors when reading for c Greats, 5 and to lecture from time

102

1887-1889] BRASENOSE

to time on Plato. But his books, the * Renaissance,' 'Marius
the Epicurean 5 and the recently published 'Imaginary
Portraits/ rendered him, for many of us, the most important
personage in Oxford.

If Pater's public repute first impelled us to read him, it
was by the exciting novelty of his message and the manner
of its delivery that he held us. Novelty, excitement; the
words may now sound quaintly, but to repressed youthful
Victorians the aesthetic ideal of life as outlined, with purple
ink, in the Epilogue to the 'Renaissance, 5 and expanded
more helpfully in the two later books, was nothing less than a
revelation. However imperfectly apprehended, and we soon
had evidence of the absurdities to which weak heads could
reduce it, the theory gave a stimulus to thought, a purpose
in the conduct of life, that were infinitely better than mere
drifting with the current. If we did attach to certain
sonorous paragraphs rather more importance than their
actual content deserved, their quality anyhow helped us to
appreciate the musical element in other literature ; although,
judging from certain deplorable essays, recently unearthed,
the immediate effect was absolutely nil.

Pater was reputed to enjoy the high spirits and physical
energy of the young barbarians about him. Once, he must
have been sorely tried. During a rag, two exuberant sports
men upset a large can of paraffin upon a second-floor carpet.
Slowly the contents trickled between the ancient floor
boards, and finally dripped steadily on to Pater's head as he
lay asleep in the room below. Trouble followed the next
morning, as a doggerel couplet, in a familiar hand, recorded
on the plaster sacred to such inscriptions.

c Numphigenes oleo ludit Fenumque sub alma
Matre, sed, O Monstrum; projicit ipse Pater.'

Of the lectures chosen for me, mostly under protest, only
those on Aristotle's 'Poetics' were really inspiring, as
much perhaps for the stately manner of the lecturer as for
their subject-matter, though that was interesting enough.

103

SELF AND PARTNERS [1887-1889

Professor Riversby had a reputation for good-living. A friend
told me that late one night he took an essay to the Rector of
his College, a College which was just celebrating a notable
success on the river. The discussion of the essay was sud
denly disturbed by the rush of several lively rowing men
along the passage outside, one of whom in passing shouted
and thumped on the Rector's oak. My friend, recognizing
the voice, feared that the tall oarsman who owned it would
get into trouble. But the Rector, suddenly roused from his
theological musings, was evidently not so much indignant as
frightened . Advancing to the door, he whispered in tremulous
entreaty, 'Riversby ! Riversby ! For Heaven's sake get to bed.'

Our Brasenose Chaplain, the Rev. Arthur Chandler, after
wards Bishop of Bloemfontein, provided exercise for the mind,
the body, and on one occasion for the digestion. When we
were very new to everything, he invited us casually and in
formally to supper at 8.30. Being dubious as to what the
invitation implied, Cripps and I elected to make things safe
by dining substantially in Hall. When we got to Chandler's
rooms an hour or two later, we found the friendly but awe-
inspiring Bursar to be our fellow-guest, and the ' supper ' to
be a most excellent dinner ; course after course, with wines
to match. We did our valiant best to do them justice, but
when we sank, at the coffee stage, into arm-chairs by the fire,
our inert and comatose repletion could* no longer be hidden.
Amidst roars of laughter we owned up, for fear that worse
things than foolishness should be suspected.

Chandler's subtle mind guided our first steps in philo
sophy, and I quickly got into trouble over an essay on Free
Will, which I innocently challenged on scientific grounds,
being quite unaware of its theological import. Those were
the days when Huxley and Dr. Wace fought month after
month in the ( Nineteenth Century, 5 over such dilemmas as
that involved in the Miracle of the Gadarene Swine. Far
more value was then attached to the evidences of religion
than is the case now, and discussions on such themes as the
narratives of the Resurrection were keen and frequent.

104

1887-1889] BRASENOSE

These problems, of course, were too simple and antiquated
for the sacred precincts of the Ingoldsby (The College Essay
Society), and for the deeply read seniors composing it, whose
papers and debates we followed with considerable awe and
little comprehension. Scholars of repute, philosophers
familiar with 'Greats/ might possibly admit, with proper
reservations and merely to facilitate discussion, that some
form of provisional TELOS could be postulated as a substitute
for the orthodox theogony; further than that they really
could not go. To hear the learned Selbie, now Principal of
Mansfield, dexterously holding some such intangible line
of defence against the heavy guns and swift manoeuvres of
E. B. Titchener, afterwards Professor of Philosophy at
Cornell, was an education in dialectic. Titchener's was
certainly the most remarkable intellect I had encountered
hitherto, covering languages and literature, philosophy and
biology, with such ease and confidence that his nickname of
* God Almighty ' was not to be wondered at, although it did
no justice to his merry, sociable and friendly temper. Only
once had we the courage to withstand him. The Baconian
theory had just been revived, and Titchener, having mastered
Ignatius Donnelly, proceeded to sweep the whole Ingoldsby
Society into belief in Bacon, his cipher and the conse
quences. Utterly crushed in debate, and stubbornly imper
vious to all arguments other than those founded upon the
poetic quality of the works in question, Cripps and I alone
maintained to the bitter end our faith in Shakespeare.

Our Chaplain's activities outside Brasenose centred in the
St. Aldate's Institute. There he got together a number of
undergraduates, including one or two famous athletes, to
interest and encourage the young men from the town.
Gymnastics, boxing and fencing were taught. The fencing
was of a rough-and-ready kind, the sergeant-instructor being
no proficient. But Tom, I forget his surname, who taught
boxing, was the local middle-weight champion, with more
strength and pace than style, but a splendid fellow, with an
imperturbable temper. By the aid of Ned Donnelly's little

105

SELF AND PARTNERS [1887-1889

handbook, and dally bouts with my brother, I had already
acquired some elements of self-defence. At the Institute I
got regular practice with the redoubtable Tom, becoming
in time a sort of assistant-professor, to teach the new-comers,
undergraduate or otherwise. It was good training, for many
of the novices were athletes, and even those with good
tempers could not sometimes resist the temptation to try to
score off their instructor.

The winter provided a further lesson. John L. Sullivan,
then champion of the world, gave a demonstration at
Preston, bringing with him sundry middle-weights and
light-weights. This, the first exhibition of professional box
ing which I had seen, impressed me greatly by the extra
ordinary speed and reach of all the contestants. Sam Black-
lock, one of the subsidiaries, appeared in these respects to
be nearly as wonderful as the massive champion. From that
moment, I set myself to acquire something like the same
rapidity of movement and footwork, until there was little or
nothing to fear from even the most violent of my Oxford
opponents ; except of course from honest Tom, whose whirl
wind of hammer-blows could be met but imperfectly, and
returned hardly at all.

To those who excel in nobler sports all this will seem but
a squalid business ; yet I do not repent in the least of the
time spent on boxing. Boxing was excellent medicine for
one both timid and quick-tempered. Half-an-hour or so
gave the muscles enough exercise for a whole day ; no mean
virtue when other outlets for activity were few or inter
mittent. Certainly I never again got quite so physically
fit, and the mild confidence acquired has carried me through
more than one unpleasant encounter in after-life.

Brasenose at this time, with C. W. Kent and other notable
oarsmen, was creating a new record at the head of the River,
a record of which we ' dry-bobs ' were naturally proud, but
in which we played no part whatever. College cricket, as
we had been, warned, was run rather like country-house
cricket. The College ground at that time was far away;

1 06

1887-1889] BRASENOSE

there were no opportunities for practice, and though our
seniors meant well, we had few interests in common with
them. So I came to avoid cricket, except when there was
urgent need for an extra bowler, finding lawn-tennis, at
which Cripps was a proficient, much better managed and
more sociable.

Going to breakfast one Sunday with Rashleigh, then Cap
tain of the Oxford Eleven, I found him indignant over the
behaviour of W. G. Grace. W. G. had brought a team
(perhaps the M.C.C.) to play against the University. At
a dinner preceding the match, a waiter, by mistake, gave
him liqueur brandy instead of sherry. Grace, suspecting a
trick and having a head like cast-iron, said nothing, but
insisted on 'taking wine' in turn with all the University
team, until they were half fuddled and failed abjectly on
the following day. He may have had some faint ground
for suspicion. I remember when a very famous professional
team of footballers came to Oxford to play the University,
we were amazed to see their Captain fall flat on his face as
he kicked off. They had been entertained just before to a
sumptuous lunch, and the University in consequence lost
only by four goals to none. ,

Our staple exercise, when nothing more strenuous claimed
us, was walking. In those days the country round Oxford
still retained the solitary pastoral character immortalized in
'Thyrsis' and 'The Scholar Gipsy/ Though we seldom
went very far afield, the memory of some of those walks
remains when countless things which were doubtless more
important have completely vanished from the mind. It is
impossible to forget the Rubens-like sunsets over the wet
autumnal fields by Water-Eaton, the glories of a June morn
ing on the track down to Bablockhythe, and the great
panoramas from sundry high places: from Beckley, from
the then lonely Boars 3 Hill, from the then unpolluted Cumnor
Hurst. Also there was a great walk to Blenheim and Wood
stock, made memorable by a midday meal of excellent
roast mutton, apple-tart, cheese and three quarts of cider

107

SELF AND PARTNERS [1887-1889

(one for our friendly host) at a nameless little inn at Bladon.
When I asked what the bill was, the innkeeper answered
'Fifteen pence.' I put down half-a-crown for the two of
us, marvelling that we should escape so lightly; and the
good man handed me back one and threepence change.

These landscape impressions I tried to record in dry little
water-colours. So unusual was the practice of drawing, so
childish my products, that I was driven at first, by shyness,
to explain them as the work of a mythical aunt. The single
lecture by Herkomer, then Slade Professor, which I attended,
taught me nothing, and deterred me from attending again.
Through my friend Arthur Waters, I made the acquaintance
of Mrs. Daniel of Worcester, always enthusiastic for the arts,
and of her two little girls, Rachel and Ruth, who charmed
me as they did so many far more famous persons. Through
Cripps, I met the cultured Wykehamists of New College and
saw Campbell Dodgson's library, reputed to be the best in
Oxford. All were then excited over the critical revelations
of Morelli; a waste of time it seemed to me, when so many
of the much-discussed works were evidently second-rate.
Of Winchester I had gained some little knowledge from
Cripps and from a new friend, Harold Child, who came
to Brasenose in 1888, and whose subsequent career as a
man of letters was foreshadowed by an enthusiasm for litera
ture which he had caught from Lionel Johnson. College
at Winchester might have many parallels with College at
Eton ; its peculiar, intensive football ; its epic, culminating
in a terrific fight; its comedy, recorded in the 'Mushri
Dictionary ' ; but in its patronage of art and letters it was
unquestionably superior.

Another scholar and friend, B. S. Cornish, had inherited
sundry Sketch Club drawings, among them two worked in
monochrome by Cotman. These introduced me to a larger
and grander style than anything I had previously seen, but
I was much too inexperienced to understand or to imitate
their quality. With Cornish, too, I hunted through the
Oxford print-shops, Chaundy's in particular, buying scraps

1 08

u

Q

w

1887-1889] BRASENOSE

of water-colour and minor etchings, and then, by comparison,
finding out slowly what they were, or, more frequently, were
not. If it be true that what we call experience is the record
of our failures, I graduated early. Incidentally, among the
etchings were certain early examples of William Strang,
issued by the 'Portfolio.' Compared with most of the other
things we saw, these seemed like the work of a giant, and
indeed little else produced in the 'eighties could compare with
them for power. No trace of these admirations is reflected in my
own feeble efforts ; I was still the slave of shilling handbooks.

A glorious memory of a very different kind is connected
with a summer morning in 1888, when our friend Dr. Butler,
after correcting my verses, said that, if Cripps and I cared
to do so, we could go over to the Windrush by the 12 o'clock
train. In the hope of this great event I had brought up my
three-shilling rod; Cripps had bought a rod from Barn-
bridge of Eton ; both of us had invested in casts and clumsy
cork-bodied Mayflies. From South Leigh we found our way
across fields and fences, with the scent and blossom of the
May all about us, until at last, by a bridge at the end of a big
pasture, we came suddenly upon the rushing, weedy stream.

Cripps had never thrown a fly, so after a few minutes
spent in explaining the essential movements, I left him by a
shallow to practise, and crossed the bridge. As I did so a
heavy shower blew up from the south-west, lashing the
willows and drenching the meadow through which I
struggled knee-deep. I had hardly reached the water below
when out came the sun, and with it such a hatch of Mayfly
as I have never seen again. In a moment the whole river
was alive with splashing silvery monsters ; the average length
seemed to be about two feet. I hooked three in quick succes
sion ; no less quickly did they roll over and carry away my
three new and costly Oxford casts. I was left only one two-
yard length of gut, tied by myself, ancient and clumsy, but
still apparently strong. With this I started afresh. Alas!
the trout had lost their first greediness, and disdained my
bedraggled monstrosity of a fly. I had to catch a natural

109

SELF AND PARTNERS [1887-1889

one, and that did the trick. In less than a minute I was
steering a fish to the bank, while behind me a red-faced and
excited young farmer was dancing about in his hay-grass
and jabbing into the water with my landing-net. Depriving
him of that dangerous weapon, I got the fish on to the bank.
It was all bright silver like a sea-trout, and weighed 2 J Ibs.
that evening.

Still lost in wonder, I was roused by a shout from Cripps
running across the meadow with a fish uplifted, c Was it
above the limit? ' It was well over f lb. ? so we had our brace.
That marvellous rise was not yet over, for a little later I got
a second fish of 1 1 Ib. Though we never saw another trout
that day, our return was a triumph, and the fish at breakfast
proved as goodly to eat as they had been to see.

I have fished the water, on and off, for forty-five years, yet
that wonderful first visit remains unique. In 1889 only chub
showed. I hooked one very big one and, after ten minutes,
got him from the deeps into my net. Having nothing else to
show, I took him back to the College kitchen for fat Tom
the scout. When I told Ronald Vickers, a brother angler,
that I had caught a chub of 3 Ibs. or more, he said, with the
simplicity of those days, 'You liar.' We adjourned to the
kitchen; the fish weighed 4 Ibs. 15 ozs. Those great days
are over. Pollution from Witney, ten years later, killed all
the fish and their food; subsequent re-stocking has never
restored the ancient happy conditions. Yet the new fish,
though far fewer in number 3 are much better fighters than
of old ; indeed in this respect they are not much inferior to
the sea-trout whom they have come once more to resemble.

Sea-trout we had met in 1888, during the visit to Lakeside
which is mentioned in c The Tarn and the Lake.' But the
playing of the largest of all was interrupted by the sudden
charge of a bull from behind. Before making off I attempted
to hoist the fish out, but he was too big to lift, the trace broke,
and I had to run for it, in a heavy Inverness cape, thick
boots and gaiters, with 1 4-foot rod and landing-net, a creel
with various tins, a flask, and a brace of fish, thumping and

no

1887-1889] BRASENOSE

clanking on my back. I am no runner, but on that occasion
I ran, jumped a broad feeder, and climbed a six-foot timber
fence, with the snorting brute galloping just behind. Ever
since then I have been inordinately shy of the cattle in
unknown places.

I had made a mess of c Mods. 3 by reading myself stupid at
the last moment. The mediocre Second Class which re
sulted made my future prospects anything but bright. Nor
did Plato, and the subjects I was taking for c Greats/ arouse
any hopeful enthusiasm about my final Schools. I was
plodding gloomily through Herbert Spencer at Preston,
when I received a letter from my cousin Frank Rivington,
the head of the publishing firm, offering me a trial there.

3 Waterloo Place,
July nth 1889.

MY DEAR HOLMES, . . . Should you decide upon leaving
Oxford and coining at once I propose to make an arrangement
for 2 years at a salary of 300 per annum. I cannot guarantee
anything beyond the 2 years, but my hope is that you will
make yourself so thoroughly acquainted with the business that
you will be able eventually to take a prominent part.

You must not consider me responsible for your leaving Oxford
and giving up any prospects, but I should be pleased to fall in
with any arrangement by which you could at some convenient
time take your degree. If you accept my proposal you could
come when you like, but it would be best to commence when I
am here; in September I shall probably be away. I am,
Yours sincerely, F. H. RTVINGTON.

To hesitate over such a proposal would have been ridiculous,
even if my circumstances had been far better than they were.
I closed with the offer; wrote to Eton and to Brasenose
resigning my scholarships ; came up to Oxford to collect my
little property, and, incidentally, on a hint from Jones our
good College porter, secured quite a nice little lot of books
from Gee the bookseller, with whom I had a credit. Gee
went bankrupt on the following day. Then, about the
middle of August, I said farewell to Lancashire and started
life as a publisher's assistant in London.

in

CHAPTER VII

RIVINGTONS
(1889-1890)

The Rivington firm ; Francis Rivington, churchman and man
of business ; my training ; life in London ; in Edinburgh with
W. B. Blaikie; Henley and the 'Scots Observer'; curious
experience at Preston; death of my grandfather and my
brother; Mr. Rivington's anxieties; the business sold to
Longmans ; introduction to Mr. Hanson.

FRANCIS HANSARD RIVINGTON, whose service I thus entered,
had just dissolved partnership with his younger brother
Septimus, and so become sole proprietor of the business of
Rivington and Co. The oldest publishing firm in Great
Britain, it had maintained a record of almost monotonous
respectability from the time of its foundation in 17 ii. 1
Its branches in the City, at Oxford and at Cambridge, had
for some time been given up, and the business concentrated
in handsome pillared premises at 3 Waterloo Place, where
relics of its former bookselling activities survived in the
painted wooden sign of The Bible and Crown from St. Paul's
Churchyard, and a Retail Department on the ground floor.
Though no longer directly profitable, this shop was permitted
to exist as a sort of rendezvous for folk of a religious bent.
Mr. Gladstone, for example, was a regular customer; his
postcards the subject of competition or petty commerce
among local autograph-hunters. Also the latest publications
of rival firms were always at hand, to be examined and
analysed by those whose business it was to manufacture
something still better.
The inclination of the Rivingtons towards divinity and

1 An account of the firm and its ventures will be found in The Publishing
Family of Rivington, by Septimus Rivington, M.A. London : Rivingtons j 1919.

112

i88q-i8go] RIVINGTONS

<j *j j

devotional works had been accentuated by close connexion
with the leaders of the Oxford Movement. As the public
interest in church matters waned, decreasing profits from
sermons were supplemented by publishing school-books,
which the partners had gradually reduced to something like
an exact commercial science. The obtaining and making
of up-to-date school-books had been the duty of my cousin
Septimus. Religion, together with the finance and general
conduct of the business, had been the province of the elder
brother, my new chief.

His temper and his intellect enabled Francis Rivington to
reconcile and to control without effort these apparently
disparate interests. Acquiring, amid the controversies sur
rounding the Oxford Movement, a singular knowledge of
theologians and the Liturgy, he had become a zealous High
Churchman, a liberal donor to Anglican causes, and a grim
critic of their finance. The Church of All Saints 3 Margaret
Street, was his especial care; almost all the well-known
divines of the time were his friends or acquaintances. Few
laymen indeed could have been so useful to them. His own
attitude is best explained, perhaps, by a remark he once
made to me when musing after dinner on the decline of
religion in England. 'After all, the Church remains a great
body; especially if we add to the Church Visible upon
Earth the Church Invisible in Heaven. But/ he added
regretfully, 'the latter don't buy books.'

His experience of business was no less complete. He had
been plunged into its depths, as a collector of accounts and
a subscriber of new books, from the moment that he left
Highgate School (where my father had been his contem
porary), at the age of seventeen. During the next thirty-
eight years he had mastered its principles, so far as they
affected the House of Rivington, by shrewd calculation and
practical experiment. Recognizing, for example, that the
booksellers were ruining themselves by giving excessive dis
counts to the public, Rivingtons introduced the net system
in 1852, and maintained it for eight years. Then they were

"3

SELF AND PARTNERS [1889-1890

compelled to abandon their lonely crusade, by the steady
opposition of the retailers whom they had tried to benefit.
This short-sighted stupidity caused a much-needed reform
to be postponed for forty years.

He was not a man to be trifled with. Once he arranged
with a scholar, then of some repute, for a text-book on Logic.
When the MS. was ready, the author received his fee, 100,
sending in return a few pages of written matter. That was
his book. Expostulation brought a letter, concluding, 'I
often hear of troubles between publishers and authors, in
which the publisher invariably has the best of it. This time,
I think, the laugh is on the author's side.' Francis Rivington
pondered. Then, with very large type and ample spacing
he padded out that manuscript till it covered some 32 pages ;
printed and bound 1000 copies, and sent out some 400 to
the Press and the chief educational authorities, as the well-
known scholar's latest work. The book was received with
so much surprise and derision that the author asked leave to
revise it. He got no reply, but the specimen copies were
still more widely distributed, until the whole edition was
gone, and the writer's reputation too. Again, when a well-
connected assistant embezzled some 200, Mr. Rivington,
in fairness to less privileged employes, felt bound to reject
all offers of restitution, all family pleas for leniency, and to
spend some 1200 upon pursuit to South America, extra
dition and prosecution.

Few men realized better the use and value of time. He
was content to be thought old-fashioned, if a new fashion
involved new calls upon his attention or his pocket. Prob
ably no firm of the same magnitude as Rivingtons continued
to keep their accounts by Single Entry. Francis Rivington did
so deliberately, having calculated that a Double Entry staff
would cost more than he could lose by occasional mistakes or
pilfering. Many other possible developments of the business
he no less deliberately neglected or deferred, because they
involved greater claims upon his carefully guarded leisure
than he chose to grant. The business was already sound and

114

z

u

ffi

J

2

o

2

CO

w

o

2

1 889- 1 890] RI VINGTONS

profitable ; extensions could be postponed until there were
assistants to look after them.

With this view, and to replace his brother Septimus, he
had just taken in Mr. A. J. Butler, the Dante Scholar, from
the Education Office, and Mr. Hatchard, publications and
all, from Piccadilly. My position was of course more lowly,
but I was soon admitted to an intimacy with my chief such
as neither of my seniors enjoyed. Every morning, down in
the basement among the packers, I wrote invoices, most of
which were promptly torn up by Kelly, the supervising clerk,
and had to be done again. In course of time I learned the
trade prices, trade terms and relative popularity of our books,
and got an acquaintance with the booksellers all over the
country, their capacities, their temper, and, above all, their
financial stability. The afternoon began upstairs with
details of book production. I was drilled in estimating the
price and quality of paper, in the methods and cost of print
ing, illustrating and binding, and made the acquaintance of
Evan Spicer, Emery Walker, H. Orrinsmith, and other
specialists whom the firm favoured. These things mastered
(and E. W. Hibburd, who looked after me, was as strict
in his methods as Kelly), I was passed on to my cousin's
private room, ostensibly to make the firm's new educational
catalogue. In the intervals of this rather drowsy work the
great man himself took me in hand, explaining the principles
of business administration, wherein the kindly manager,
H. A. MoncriefF, was also an adept.

Francis Rivington spoke with an authority beyond ques
tion. There was something Imperial in that stately little
presence : his bust would have been in its place among the
Caesars. When he smiled behind his gold spectacles he
looked like a Brother Cheeryble ; when he did the opposite
(it was rare, and never happened to me), he turned into a
Bartolommeo Colleoni. Admiration for my father's self-
sacrificing life may have started his interest in me. When I
was at Eton he had put me up twice, once at no small
inconvenience, for the Eton and Harrow match. Now with

SELF AND PARTNERS [1889-1890

infinite patience and kindness he went through the business
of each day with me, introducing me gradually to the
mystery of authors, their treatment and their agreements,
asking me as gravely as if I had been senior partner, how
this or that problem could best be handled, and not with
holding even his private affairs from my knowledge, if there
seemed to be anything in them by which I might profit.
His worldly success, and the extraordinary foresight and
good judgment by which he maintained it, so impressed me
that I worked under him with an interest and an eagerness
which I had never felt before.

After a few months I was promoted to the responsible
duty of interviewing authors in the chief's absence. My first
experience was curious. A schoolmaster wrote offering
something for publication which Francis Rivington intended
to refuse. I happened to mention that I knew the author,
and that he had once let me down rather badly in my
earlier days. 'Well, 5 said he, 'it will be an excellent oppor
tunity for you to learn to say "No " without causing offence.'
Giving me some hints as to how the firm's decision could be
conveyed most gently, he insisted that I should occupy his
chair of state when the author called. The interview proved
much less trying than I had expected, but the odd and, "as
it happened, rather pitiful reversal of our situations con
vinced me that the ancient idea of Nemesis might not be
all superstition.

It was quickly discovered that, as a religious publisher,
there was no hope for me. Having naturally imbibed at
Oxford a little of the current scepticism, I had rather
shocked smiling Monsignor Rivington (alias Father Luke),
my chief's brother, by the way I had talked of Catholicism
to his friend Grissell, whose rooms at the corner of Holy well
were rumoured to have witnessed many an undergraduate
conversion. Then scepticism got an unexpected shock,
during a visit to my uncle Frank Dickson at Ribchester. In
his Trinity days he had been a runner and a hammer-
thrower. We knew him as a poor, cheerful clergyman

116

1 889- 1 890] RI VINGTONS

crippled by gastric trouble. At Ribchester he revealed him
self in a new light. He had quickly made friends with
Father Perry the astronomer, and the colony of priests at
Stoneyhurst. His parishioners, on the other hand, were
practically Galvinists no unusual phenomenon in Catholic
Lancashire. To convert them to less narrow views v/as the
immediate problem, and one which he soon mastered.
When I had once heard him preach, and had talked with
him a little, I recognized that here was something like
genius, allied with gentle reason, of an order which I had
never encountered. All objections were met, all difficulties
explained, simply and at once. There must, I felt, be some
thing very wrong with the Church of England, if it could
leave such a man to labour and die (as he soon did) in a
rough and remote parish, when in a wider field he might
have done infinite good.

In general, I disliked sermons and devotional works.
Even Gore's 'Lux Mundi,* the Tract XC of the moment,
proved unreadable. So I was definitely dedicated to the
baser but more entertaining science of manufacturing school-
books. Owing to Mr. Rivington's training I acquired, in
less than a year, a quite precocious knowledge of the busi
ness side of publishing, although in the conduct of larger
affairs I remained almost as callow as nature had made me.

life in London, too, now that the incubus of poverty was
lifted, offered many pleasant novelties. The charming old
streets behind Westminster Abbey had not then been dis
covered by well-to-do Members of Parliament. They con
tained only modest lodging-houses, among which, under the
guidance of my good uncle Granville Dickson, then secretary
of the Church Defence Association, I began to search for
quarters. From our first choice, in Smith Square, I was
evicted the moment my mother came up to London to see
me, on the unchallengeable ground that the landlady was
as disobliging as her rooms were filthy. From the more
stately and far more comfortable first floor at 12 Great
College Street, which she engaged for me, I walked every

117

SELF AND PARTNERS [1889-1890

morning to Waterloo Place by Dean's Yard and St. James's
Park. My office hours being ten to six, with a liberal
interval for lunch, I could slip along, now and then, to the
National Gallery at midday, and get a still more precious
fifty minutes for practising water-colour before I set out in
the morning. This daily exercise gave me some handiness
with my materials : that was all. I had no idea of style :
my work was still dry and niggled, the drawing timid, the
colour garish or dull.

London itself was far more exciting. At Westminster, in
the Park, or in Pall Mall, one might see almost any of the
notable men of the day: Mr. Gladstone (the collar dis
appointing), Lord Salisbury (bigger than the caricatures),
Mr. Balfour, Bishop Creighton (cigarette rather startling),
Sir Frederic Leighton, looking like a little debonair Jupiter
in a curly top-hat and flowing tie, as he set his smart shoe
on Longman and Strongitharm's polished brass window-
ledge to tie up an errant lace, or Sir John Millais looking
like a stately and prosperous iron-master while at the
National Gallery Sir Frederic Burton might be hanging
pictures in a smart gray frock-coat and lilac gloves. When
I came of age in November, my name was put down for
the Athenaeum by my uncle Richard Holmes, and in the
hall there I was introduced to Seymour Haden, then at the
height of his fame, and to 'Hang Theology 1 Rogers, my
father's venerable chief. I joined a humbler club hard by,
which had no such long waiting-list as the Athenaeum, and
some excellent Burgundy. It went bankrupt two years later,
and let me in for 26. An Irish Debate in the House, with
Colonel Saunderson taunting Tim Healy and the Parnellites,
seemed another satisfactory proof that one was come to the
very hub of the universe.

Yet, such is human nature, the most consistent pleasure of
all was to pass through Dean's Yard while the Westminster
footballers were practising. The sight and the thud of the
ball never failed to bring back the joyous days of College
kick-about. And once, only once, I came through the

118

1889-1890] RIVINGTONS

archway from Victoria Street upon the glorious vision of a
ball sailing down over the railings only a few yards away.
Alas ! my satisfaction in treating that volley as It deserved
was marred by the misbehaviour of my top-hat, which flew
off into a puddle.

Having come down from Oxford two years in advance of
my contemporaries, I was hard put to it at first for youthful
company. My chief and other seniors were most hospitable,
especially my uncle Granville. His pleasant house at Cheam
became a regular week-end resort, where my clever aunt
and lively, critical girl-cousins did their best to educate and
entertain their clumsy relative. Yet solitary evenings in
lodgings called for resources which I did not then possess,
so I welcomed the suggestion that I should go up to Con
stable's at Edinburgh, for a few weeks in December, to study
the minor mysteries of printing. . For railway reading I was
provided with two rival Greek Grammars, upon which a
report was required. The comparison proved the reverse
of tedious, and taught me more about the subject in
a few hours than I had learned in the previous twelve
years.

After breaking my journey at some North-country paper-
mills, bleak, savage uplands without, unlimited whisky
within I came in due course to Edinburgh. The Athens of
the North at this time deserved its title in more senses than
one, for nowhere was respect so generally and naturally paid
to art and letters. With these cultured activities my host,
W. B. Blaikie, and the firm of T. and A. Constable which he
controlled, were intimately connected. By day I would be
working at Thistle Street, either with Blaikie himself, or
with his delightful but less practical partner, Archibald
Constable. He had seen Sir Walter Scott, and his literary
attainments made him the prince of proof-readers. Or I
might be allotted for a few days as assistant to the e minder 5
of a Wharfedakj helping to * make ready ' with a lump of
paste on the back of my hand, and when the machine had
started, lifting off the printed sheets ; keeping an eye the

119

SELF AND PARTNERS [1889-1890

while upon my toes, lest through some unwary movement
they should get nipped off.

But the mechanical side of the craft was not everything.
The Constable firm, at this time, had no small share in the
revival of printing as an art. Blaikie's taste and energy had
equipped them with special types, special papers, and a
style which had a character of its own, both handsome and
solid. From Henley's little 'Book of Verses ' (bound, I was
told, in the red cloth of Hamilton Bruce's curtains) and the
'Scots Observer, 3 a weekly as striking in its typography as
in its contents, to stately folios like c Quasi Cursores ' and the
Trench and Dutch Loan Collection 3 catalogue, the Con
stable products were alike distinguished. The contrast
between them and the commercial printing of the day was
emphasized by a visit to Thomas Nelson s s new works, then
the very latest thing in scientific book production. It was
fascinating to follow through room after room the develop
ment of the various parts of a book, from the raw material
to the finished state, until these various currents, so diverse in
origin, finally united at the binding-press, to produce a
brand-new school 'Reader. 3 Thomas Nelson, in his own
field, was clearly invincible. Yet all his manufacturing
ability could not prevent the result from cutting a very poor
figure beside the Constable books, where the design of a
single title-page would be a labour of love, and of several
weeks.

Out of office-hours I was introduced to the society of
Edinburgh. The Professors of the University and the
artists came first, -a genial company, in which I recall with
particular pleasure the personality of David Masson and his
stories of his native Aberdeen. In this company Walter
Blaikie was well able to hold his own. Not only was he a
Scot of Scots, nursed by the Alison Cunningham who later
became famous as Stevenson's 'Gummy,' but as a young
engineer in Kathiawar he had shot his lion, laid down a
railway, built a palace, a church, a hospital, a jail, and
planned a harbour; developing meanwhile the scientific

120

1889-1890] RIVINGTONS

tastes and the profound historical knowledge for which in
after years he came to be well known. His irrepressible wit,
his inexhaustible energy, his enthusiasm for all good causes
and his generosity in backing them, made him a natural
centre for the intellectual activities of the place, and one
venture in which he was then concerned has a niche of its
own in the history of letters.

The 'Scots Observer/ perhaps the most brilliant and
vigorous weekly journal ever seen in this country, was largely
Blaikie's creation, since it was he who induced W. E. Henley
to leave London to edit it for his friend Fitzroy Bell. To one
accustomed to the sobriety of the 'Athenaeum 5 and the
'Spectator, 3 Henley's unrestrained expression of his likes and
dislikes, especially the latter, was amusing enough, but the
impression he left was less permanent and potent than that
of work by sundry writers till then unknown : ' The Time
Machine* by H. G. Wells; 'Barrack-Room Ballads' by
Rudyard Kipling (Blaikie claimed Kipling as his find) ;
poems by W. B. Yeats ; essays by Charles Whibley ; stories
by Marriott Watson, Neil Munro and others whom Henley's
genius had discovered or was training. Fearful that I might
never come across them again, I cut out the contributions of
Wells, Yeats and Kipling, and kept them in an envelope.

Henley's own poems I quickly knew by heart, and on one
awe-inspiring afternoon he took me to see the collection of
R. T. Hamilton Bruce, then the most famous of its kind in
Edinburgh. 'No art-criticism, please, 5 was Henley's sole
condition, but since he discoursed to me in his inimitable,
trenchant fashion, from the moment I joined him in the
hansom to the moment when I got back to Blaikie's door,
the caution was needless. His red beard, his crutches and
his flaming energy so absorbed attention that the pictures,
our ostensible objective, might hardly have existed. The
Barbizon School was then regarded as a daring and, in some
respects, a revolutionary innovation, yet all that remained
in my memory was disappointment with the majority^ a
vague interest in Monticelli, and a rather less vague pleasure

121

SELF AND PARTNERS [1889-1890

in Corot's atmospheric compositions. Henley's talk on such
things as the orchestration of poetry completely ousted any
rival interest.

The patriotic nationalism of the Scots amused him : I
had found it mildly embarrassing. Insistence upon racial
individuality, which has recently become such a disturbing
factor in modern world-politics, was then unknown to us.
While recognizing that each race had its own traditions and
peculiarities, we English thought that civilization implied a
search for points of contact rather than a stressing of differ
ences. Yet in this most hospitable and jolly Edinburgh
household I discovered that I was the hereditary foe. 'I
hate all the English/ remarked one of the little girls at
breakfast, C I will neverr neverr marrry any English perrson.'
Blaikie too, with all his breadth of mind, was first and fore
most a Scot, a true son of the Covenant. It was of the
Covenanters that he talked all one bitter Sunday, as we
tramped from Roslin on to the snow-clad Pentlands where
the martyrs lie ; it was with their descendants of the Free
Kirk that he took us to worship. When in reading c Wander
ing Willie's Tale ' he came to the passage about the Perse
cutors, he uttered their names with the vehemence of a still
active hatred. The sympathy with Scottish feeling and
history that I then acquired has never left me. I have
always felt at home in Scotland, and time after time have
owed much to the friendship and generosity of those who
maintain the ancient national tradition.

The night I came south to Preston for Christmas was
marked by a curious experience. I was sitting alone reading
by the dining-room fire, long after the rest of the household
had gone to bed, when the silence was abruptly broken by
a heavy footstep walking down the hall outside. Burglars?
To whip out a match-box, light one of the candelabra on
the mantelpiece, seize the poker and rush to the door, did
not take me long. But the hall was empty ; so was the broad
staircase, so were the locked and bolted servants' quarters.

Ashamed of my panic I said nothing about it, not even

122

1 889- 1 890] RI VINGTONS

to my brother, who arrived the next day. Once more I sat
up late, exchanging news with him; once more I heard the
heavy step go down the hall outside. I made no move.
But my brother jumped up, saying, 'There's a man in the
house/ and went through precisely the same motions as
I had done the night before. Again the hall was empty. I
was relieved to find my experience had been no hallucina
tion. We were both puzzled. We had known the house
from childhood ; every sound in it, as a rule, was familiar
to us, and could be traced instinctively to its source. On
the following evening we went out to a dance, and got back
to the house at about half-past one. To avoid waking our
grandfather, who was eighty and a light sleeper, we entered
very softly, taking off our shoes. As we closed the door,
with the bristles of the door-mat pricking through our thin
socks, the heavy step started close by us in the darkness, and
proceeded, as before, to pace the length of the halL I
struck a match instantly, but, as before, the place was empty.

On the next night, Christmas Eve, we were again startled,
this time by my mother's voice, announcing that my grand
father had been taken ill, and that the doctor must be sent
for at once. Three days later the old gentleman died. His
estate, some 50,000, did not amount to much when divided
among his ten surviving children and their families; the
house, which had so long been their recognized centre, was
doomed to pass into the hands of strangers, the fine old
furniture, portraits, plate and china to be dispersed. We
could not help wondering whether the footsteps had not been
some vague and ineffective premonition of the impending
change.

Many years later I found that my wife had had a some
what similar experience. A distant relative, the last of her
race, had died in London. In consequence, her old family
house in Westmorland passed to my wife, who was sleeping
there with her stepmother on the night before the funeral,
while the body was on its way North. In the small hours
they were both awakened by a gentle footstep outside the

123

SELF AND PARTNERS [1889-1890

door, which my wife opened, thinking that the maid had
come with their morning tea. But there was no one. Pre
sently the footsteps entered the bedroom, walking this way
and that while they lay and listened in terror. Was the old
lady paying a last visit to her ancestral home ? Mice, of
course, provide the materialist with an easy alternative;
although, if that be the explanation, it is odd that the step
has never been heard there again for forty years or more.
The slow ponderous tread of the Preston visitant, at all
events, can have had no such skittish origin. 1

Returning to London after my grandfather's funeral, I
found Rivingtons in the grip of influenza, which in 1890 was
a serious, even a dangerous, novelty. Out of a staff of thirty-
one, twenty-eight, including Mr. Rivington himself, were
prostrated by the epidemic, and while, as one of the three
survivors, I was trying to fill one gap after another, I was
suddenly summoned to Cambridge to my brother's death
bed. His appearance of health had been delusive. By his
devotion to rowing he had overtaxed his strength (I now
saw the force of our doctor's warning), and had contracted
a wasting disease for which no remedy was then known.
Influenza merely hastened a result which was inevitable.

At the time this knowledge was no consolation. My
brother Frank had not only been my companion in every
kind of mischief, adventure and amusement, but was the one
upon whom we all relied for steady, unselfish good sense.
Many years later at Oxford, Dr. James told me that he was
the best and nicest schoolboy he had ever known. And yet
he was no prig, for his charity included, his humanity
attracted, black sheep as well as schoolmasters and ordinary

1 The evidence even for objective apparitions can be rather strong. During
Commem' in the summer following, I lunched at Wadham with a family named
Worthington, father, mother, son and daughters. They had all lived for fifteen
years in a vicarage where a ghost made frequent and apparently quite meaning
less appearances. Commonly identified with Abraham Cowley, it paid no
attention to citations from that poet's works ; frightened nobody except newly
arrived maidservants, and once had been unwise enough to venture out on to
the lawn, whence the irreverent youngsters chased it with tennis-rackets
through the net.

124

1889-1890] RIVINGTONS

good fellows. To my mother in particular his sudden and
unexpected death remained a grief hardly second even to
my father's loss. She was now dependent upon me alone,
and in poor health too, facts which had a considerable bear
ing upon the course I followed during the next few years.

She soon came up to London and settled down with me
at 10 Kensington Crescent. The time I had previously
spent every morning in practising water-colour was now
taken up by the business of catching a Hammersmith bus,
and getting to Waterloo Place. The week-ends alone were
left, and by compromising with my devout mother, I could
use most of Sunday for drawing, if I went to the evening
service at S. Mathias. This I rather liked. One might get
a distant glimpse of Pater, now very smart and top-hatted,
and there was always a chance of compensation for the
sermon in the shape of a processional hymn, with a swinging
rhythm and a pleasant suggestion of far more ancient rituals.

My mother's health remained a constant anxiety. She
worked energetically for the C.O.S. under the direction of
my cousin Harry Toynbee, but was never for long out of
the hands of doctors and specialists. My second anxiety
was a change in the situation at Rivingtons. When laid up
with influenza, Mr. Rivington realized that at fifty-five he
was no longer quite a young man, and that any long illness
would have a most detrimental effect upon the business, and
therewith upon his family fortunes. Butler, nominally the
second in command, regarded these apprehensions lightly.
A scholar who had been an intimate friend of Matthew
Arnold, he lived in a world of his own, occupied just then
by the 'Alpine Journal,' by his new text of Dante, and by
a comic antipathy towards his Oxford namesake, my friend
the Bursar of Brasenose. Although these two scholars had
never met, the constant confusion between their person
alities, and their works, had led to something like impati
ence, on one side at least, and each was careful when naming
his children to see that the unhappy identity should not
recur.

"5

SELF AND PARTNERS [1889-1890

In the previous autumn Francis Rivington had told me
with some amusement how Horatio Bottomley had called,
fur overcoat, big cigar and all, to ask him if he would sell
Rivingtons to the Hansard Publishing Union, which
Bottomley was then promoting. 'Certainly/ said my
cousin, 'the price will be two hundred thousand pounds.'
'Will you take half in shares?' was the next inquiry; e No,
I'm afraid I must ask for cash,' the reply. 'Ah! Mr.
Rivington/ said Horatio, 'then I fear we shan't be able to
do business,' and so went on his way.

Now my cousin's mood had altered. Some means of
stabilizing his interests and getting relief from the every
day labour of business would have to be found. I was not
therefore wholly surprised when he announced to me one
day that he had decided to turn the business into a private
limited company, with H. A. Moncrieff and myself (this was
indeed a surprise) as its Managing Directors. Before doing
so, however, he intended to offer the business for sale to
Messrs. Longman. If they were willing to pay the price
he would ask (and they were the only publishing firm in
London who could do so), that would enable him to retire
at once, and take the holiday to which after thirty-eight
years of hard work he felt himself entitled. My interests, in
any case, would be safeguarded.

The amazing prospect of a managing directorship at the
age of twenty-one, in a prosperous business which I was
beginning to understand, with colleagues whom I thoroughly
liked, vanished almost at once. Longmans had no sooner
checked a few of the copyright valuations than they decided
to acquire a concern which not only marched with their
own, but also might serve as a buffer against competition,
particularly from the rival educational business which my
cousin Septimus had recently started, under the title of
Percival and Co., and which became, in time, the existing
Rivington firm. The financial part of the transfer was
quickly arranged, and in due course I brought back to
Waterloo Place a cheque for 30,000 as deposit on the

126

1889-1890] RIVINGTONS

purchase price. But my own future was not so easily settled.
Longmans very naturally wished, and intimated, that my
little specialist knowledge of educational publishing should
not be made available for any rival concern, such as Percival
and Co. Yet the partners had sons of their own whose future
prospects, they feared, might suffer if I were admitted to
any prominent place in their establishment at Paternoster
Row. They were willing to take me over with the rest of
the Rivington staff at my existing salary, but only on the
condition that I was not to ask later for an improvement
as regards payment or position. Any suggestion as to
that must come from their side, and there could, of
course, be no question of any share in the business in
after years.

I have sometimes wondered whether a little more tact and
experience in negotiation than I then possessed, might not
have reduced these restrictions to a workable arrangement.
Had I guessed what the anxieties and disappointments of
the next seven years were to be, I would have accepted
the proposals, restrictions and all, and made educational
publishing my business in life. To my advisers at the time,
however, Longmans 5 condition seemed too rigorous, and
Mr. Rivington sent me to his solicitor with a letter stating
that, if I wished to embark in any suitable business, a
sum of from 5000 to 7000, either without interest
or at a nominal rate, would be available for me as
capital. Educational publishing, by the understanding with
Longmans, was specially excepted : otherwise I might look
where I pleased, only, as the solicitor breezily explained,
'The business must be a real business; not art, of course,
or any nonsense of that sort.*

My cousin was leaving England almost at once for a tour
round the world, and would be away for about a year.
Before he left, he introduced me at the Albemarle Club to
a big, suave gentleman, Mr. Edward Hanson, who was
understood to be looking out for a partner in the Ballantyne
Press, of which he was the chief proprietor. It was quickly

127

SELF AND PARTNERS [1889-1890

arranged that I should go to 14 Tavlstock Street towards
the end of August, to learn to become a printer.

Two diversions intervened. A fortnight at Newby Bridge
provided proof that poultry will eat your trout, if you leave
them on the bank; that a pike when hooked in a salmon
river will fight and leap like a salmon ; also that if you get
up at four in the morning you may attract a salmon with a
worm. There followed another wonderful fortnight at North
Berwick with the Blaikies, when under the eye of the
famous Ben Sayers and the criticism of my caddie, after
wards famous too as Jack White, I was introduced to the
baffling mysteries and fascination of golf. Towards the
end of my stay, Blaikie asked me whether I would come to
him in Edinburgh and join the Constable firm. I did not
consider myself irrevocably bound to Mr. Hanson, but my
mother's health and residence in London made a move to
Scotland seem impracticable, so that I treated the offer more
lightly than I should have done. The friendship and com
panionship of a man like Blaikie were not likely to be found
again, and my first experiment in active life was already, in
reality, a fiasco.

128

CHAPTER VIII
THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

(1890-1892)

Life as a compositor and proof-reader; unemployment; study
at South Kensington; Edward Arnold; visit to Holland and
Belgium; art, cricket and a thunderstorm; return to Balian-
tyne's as book-keeper; Covent Garden characters; Ricketts
and Shannon befriend me; efforts at etching; return to
publishing.

How complete the fiasco did not immediately become
apparent. With the glamour of golf now added to the
glamour of fishing, I started work gaily enough as a com
positor in Tavistock Street. Collimore, the clicker of my
companionship, was a pleasant fellow; the other com
positors, though sometimes rough, always grubby and ill-
paid (Ballantyne's was a non-union house) , were good fellows
too, with no more than the common faults of the British
workman, and certainly all his virtues. It was touching to
see the consideration everybody showed for Mr. D., a
broken-down educated gentleman, who in his spare moments
would talk to me of books, Keats being his special favourite.
Poor old dear! He could only earn about i8s. a week.
Happily he was discovered by some relative a year or two
later, and rescued from his pitiable state. What, too, had
been the history of A., the fiery, red-nosed and universally
dreaded proof-reader, who one day startled me by a scathing
criticism of Thomas Love Peacock? A printing-office is the
natural catch-pit for literary derelicts. Memorable also was
our annual wayzgoose, when with flaunting asters in every
buttonhole we drove in a big wagonette (I blushed in
prominence by the driver) to Hadleigh Woods, caroused
modestly, and at the last in the deepening twilight formed a

129

SELF AND PARTNERS [1890-1892

search-party to find a dear maudlin old Irishman, who
had staggered away unnoticed to sleep it off in the under
growth.

Meanwhile I was learning to roll my shirt-sleeves up to
my arm-pits, to pick type neatly from the filthy and some
times verminous cases, to set it and distribute it with reason
able precision, to earn thereby seven or eight shillings a
week for the benefit of the 'ship/ and to speak the language
of rny fellows. This habit was not easily cast off when the
day's work was done. I had often to think quite hard before
talking in ordinary society : indeed to this day my language
is apt to exhale a whiff of Co vent Garden. The squalor and
isolation in which I worked did not at first depress me : they
seemed essential preliminaries to better things. But as the
weeks lengthened into months, and the heads of the firm had
apparently forgotten my existence, I began to grow anxious.
When Christmas came I ventured to ask what the next stage
was to be. I could be a 'reader ' was the reply.

In due course I was settled in a box with an intelligent
gamin of a reading-boy, and masses of proofs, ranging from
'Home Chimes' to a mighty work on Fungology. This,
owing to the illegibility of the author's manuscript and the
recondite classicalism of his scientific vocabulary, had
bothered even the formidable Mr. A. Unfortunately the
management so stinted our supply of gas that we had to
work in semi-darkness, and by the end of three months I
had strained my excellent eyesight. Yet as case-work had
taught me the cost and technical details of type-setting, so
reading taught me the cost and mystery of printers' correc
tions, that eternal source of suspicion and dispute between
those who write books and those who produce them.

Authors and publishers do not always know how much a
good printer's reader may do for them. Quite apart from
his detection of misprints, the reader is the assessor who
settles what is a fair allowance for the time involved in
making corrections, as opposed (it may be) to the demands
of a foreman who, in the interest of his 'ship, 5 will perhaps

130

18901892] THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

charge six hours* work as eight hours, if he thinks the claim
will pass muster. 1

The commercial side of proof-reading naturally brought
me into frequent contact with Mushet, who kept the firm's
accounts. To my surprise I found that this tall, grave and
capable gentleman had been serving the firm for eight or
nine years, with exactly the same promise of advancement
as myself, but had got no further than a high stool in the
counting-house. He was beginning to despair of any move
being made to reinforce the existing management, and I,
knowing his sound abilities, became almost equally desper
ate. If his promotion to a junior partnership could be thus
indefinitely postponed, what could my chance be? I found
out quickly enough. When I reported that I had more or
less mastered the business of proof-reading, and would like
to learn some other phase of the craft, it was suggested that
I had better stay where I was for the present. I was in too
much of a hurry to get on.

Clearly the benignant Fortune who had promoted me
from Canterbury to Eton, from Eton to Oxford, and thence
to an honourable place in the Rivington business, had grown
tired of her mediocre favourite., and had dropped him in a
cul-de-sac. There was nothing for it but to retire politely,
join the ranks of the unemployed, and look about for
another opening.

London publishers then, though competing keenly with
each other, formed a singularly close corporation, presenting
no gap into which I could conveniently step. One firm,
otherwise interesting and interested, was put off (Oh the
irony of it!), because the Rivingtons were High Church; I
must therefore have acquired leanings towards the Scarlet
Woman. The Longmans very kindly offered me a position
in their New York house which, on my mother's account, I
was obliged to decline. A firm of more dubious repute
seemed anxious to secure my assistance, but wilted when I
asked, before committing myself, if I might see their copy-

1 This system, I now hear, is by no means universal.

SELF AND PARTNERS [1890-1892

right valuations. Hither and thither I tramped and in
quired, but could hear of nobody who had the least need of
my valuable services and months of experience.

Being thus cut off from any opportunity of resuming work
as a publisher or a printer, it was necessary to do or learn
something else. Art naturally suggested itself, but its open
pursuit was barred by the family solicitor's ruling. That I
could not disregard without risking the loss of my cousin's
goodwill, and therewith impairing my mother's future pro
spects. Her income was insufficient for comfortable living,
without either some help from me, or annual drawings from
capital; the course which we had ultimately to adopt. But
a ticket for the Art Library at South Kensington Museum
could not reasonably be held as an infringement of the family
embargo, and in hours of enforced leisure I could make
drawings from the casts as others did. The method of most
of the students, their timid elaborate modelling with stump
and charcoal, seemed an extravagant waste of time. If a
cast or statue was to be drawn, two hours, or thereabouts,
was a sufficient allowance: so each spare morning was
devoted to a time-drawing in pencil of a new subject, Spare
afternoons were spent in the Library, browsing over picture-
books,, or copying Charles Keene. Taking a small sketch
book with me as I went to and fro, I practised making notes
effaces and incidents in the streets. These resulted in a few
compositions which I ventured to send to 'Punch/ They
were returned of course, but with a note so polite that the
refusal seemed a compliment. I came across these old
drawings a short time ago. One is just tolerable: the
remainder show little humour and no real observation.

In June 1890, before I could carry these experiments
further, I heard from Charles Knight Clowes that a young
publisher, Edward Arnold, was about to move from the
City to Bedford Street, and might require some help.
Arnold proved very pleasant and frank, could offer me no
salary, but would be glad if I could come and help him to
clear off the arrears occasioned by Ms removal. I set to

132

1890-1892] THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

work at once In Bedford Street, explained to him, I fear,
how he ought to manage his business, and towards the end
of July saw the mountains of occupation dwindling, dwind
ling to the vanishing point. In a week or two I should
evidently be out of a job once more. The emergency recalled
a remark of my uncle Richard Holmes that, of all places
within easy distance, Holland and Belgium were the best
worth seeing. My friend Cripps was willing to join me in a
little tour, so I was able to tell Arnold, to his evident relief,
that as business was now so quiet I would take the oppor
tunity of going abroad.

We had 20 each to travel with, and on that sum, after
consulting Messrs. Gaze, we proposed to 'do ' Bruges, Ghent,
Brussels, Malines, Antwerp, Rotterdam, The Hague, Delft,
Leyden, Haarlem and Amsterdam. And we c did ' them all,
with 1 to spare, by mapping out our route for each day
with transatlantic method, but allowing a margin always for
prolonged enthusiasm, sketching, and other causes of delay.
Antwerp, indeed, was the only place which we rather
scamped, because the hotel proved so dear and its Vesuvio
so eruptive. Our flight from it, jolting and swaying over the
cobble-stones to the station, provided us with all the anxieties
and sensations which we had missed on our Channel crossing.
Elsewhere we missed little or nothing which Baedeker held
to be worth seeing.

So long as one is young enough to carry one's own suit-case,
and to put up now and then with petty discomforts, travel
ling in forma pauperis is the best of adventures, and the most
instructive. Of course the guest at a Palace or an Embassy
meets famous personages, but the attention due to them has
to be subtracted from the store available for studying the
country and its works of art. In even worse case is the visitor
who passes from a grand hotel in one place to a grand hotel,
exactly like it, in another. The hotel becomes the inevitable
centre of his little limited world. The car from its door takes
him with the same impartiality to the Forum or the Louvre;
to Pompeii, the Acropolis or the Pyramids, returning him in

*33

SELF AND PARTNERS [1890-1892

due course to the same cosmopolitan table d'hdte. The super-
efficient hotel service shields him from real contact with the
people of the country : its information bureau saves him
from the trouble and the thrills of exploration. Admitting
its many conveniences for those who have definite business
in a place, its cleanliness and its admirable plumbing, the
hotel de luxe has something to answer for as a contributory
to international misunderstanding.

The impecunious tourist, in sheer self-defence, has to
observe and to learn. He has to find his way for himself,
and so comes across much that is hidden from the rich, as
they are whirled, patronizing and unseeing, from one show-
place to the next. Having no interpreter he must struggle
with the language, make the acquaintance of ordinary folk,
eat and drink as they do, and find every day fresh little
adventures among them. Having no more than the stars in
his Baedeker to guide him, his reactions to each new spec
tacle are unbiassed. If some constellations disappoint, a
single asterisk now and then will prove a veritable Sirius.
He travels the farthest who travels alone or nearly so.

Our outstanding sensations began with the Michelangelo
Madonna at Bruges, and The Adoration of the Lamb, concluding
with the works of Vermeer then almost unknown in
England, the single example hanging high in the corner of
a bedroom at Windsor. Among places, Rotterdam with its
huge half-dismantled windmills and tumble-down suburban
watersides, like a series of Rembrandt drawings, and Leyden
with its graceful Stadthuis, its moated bastions, gave quite
unexpected pleasure. Rotterdam's broad handsome main
street now runs where the black Cool Vest reflected its
great windmill; the suburbs are buried under vast blocks
of workmen's dwellings. The Stadthuis at Leyden has
been burned down, and such traces of seventeenth-century
Holland as remain are hemmed in and overshadowed by
the stark erections of modern commerce.

We learned something of one aspect of the Belgian char
acter during an evening spent with a chance-met Brussels

134

1890-1892] THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

carpenter, in various whitewashed estaminets^ where itinerant
vendors came and went with evening papers, hard-boiled
eggs, and trays of pallid little cooked crabs. Our companion
proved a charming fellow, hospitable, sensible, temperate,
and taught us that the prosperity of the country was probably
based far more securely on such men as he, than on the
astuteness of Leopold and his Congo financiers. Of merry,
comfortable Holland we were given a different impression.
At Scheveningen we lighted upon a first-rate concert of
classical music, combined with an entertainment for the
veterans (mostly rather bibulous) of the Dutch-Belgian war,
which roused a casual Dutch acquaintance to bewail the
decay of the national character, owing to a too easy pro
sperity. To us the Dutch were invariably kind, from small
services such as proffering a chair if one stopped to draw by
the wayside, to more serious help, as when an Amsterdam
official made so gross an overcharge that we went indig
nantly to a police-court. There, after begging us, amid
universal merriment, to discard our Dutch and our diction
ary and to plead in French, the authorities heard us most
patiently and promised redress. Unluckily we had to leave
before justice could actually be done.

Again, at The Hague, we happened to stop to watch some
cricketers playing single- wicket in the foot-high grass of the
Park. Presently one of the flannelled young Dutchmen
came forward, and invited us so warmly to take a hand that
it seemed churlish to refuse. They had enjoyed playing an
English team, and would like more practice. We were the
less unwilling to risk our national credit, since the bowler
was sending down harmless slows. But when, under that
pleasant delusion, I went to the wicket, they took that
simple bowler off, and put on a big fast left-hander, whose
balls were none the easier to play because they stuck for an
instant as they pitched in the hay-grass. Luckily he missed
the wicket, and at last I got a long hop which I cut hard to
point. The ball pitched a few yards off, and rose vertically
from the grass with an odd crack, followed by the bald head

SELF AND PARTNERS [1890-1892

of a stout Dutchman who had been lying invisible, close to
the wicket. He rubbed his skull with a good-natured grin
and then settled down again to his sleep. Terrified of repeat
ing the damage, I ran out at the next ball, lifted it well into
the country, and then insisted on taking a part in the game
which involved no danger of homicide.

At Leyden alone did we meet with a real scare. The sight
of canals boiling with good-sized fish led us to purchase a
cheap rod and local tackle; thin green twine and a rusty
hook. But when we reached the waterside after dinner, all
was still. As we tried alternately to hook some rare and
languid nibbler, we noticed a strange phenomenon. Far
away in the north-west a gigantic cloud was swelling up, its
top just catching the light of the sunken sun. Such a tower
ing colossus of the sky I have never seen again. Before we
reached the hotel remote mutterings of thunder began,
which developed into flashes and crashes of steadily increas
ing intensity. By midnight the detonations had grown to
nerve-racking violence and the atmospheric oppression made
bedclothes intolerable, yet the focus was still some distance
away. With most unpleasing certainty the bombardment
crept steadily nearer and nearer, each shock a trifle worse
than the last, until, at about two in the morning, the climax
came overhead, the blaze and the bang being simultaneous
and terrific. Outside the lightning illumined a dazzling wall
of water; within the whole staff was afoot with fire-buckets,
for the hotel was one of the tallest buildings in the place.
Then, to our fervent relief, there came a just perceptible
interval between the light and sound of the discharge, and
for the next four hours with the same portentous delibera
tion the menace moved away. We were afterwards told by
our host, with sly Dutch humour, that when the countryfolk
are caught in the open by these storms they lie flat on the
earth, lest they should make targets for the lightning, being
perhaps the tallest things for miles around.

Our tour concluded with a rough crossing from Rotter
dam, enlivened by a cabin-mate who from the opposite

136

1890-1892] THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

bunk expounded, with a strong American accent, the true
place of Herbert Spencer as a philosopher, between
paroxysms even more violent than ours. On reaching
London with a much enlarged experience of pictures, and
a number of little pencil-studies, I reported to Edward
Arnold, and found myself unexpectedly welcome. Work
had once more accumulated during my absence. Would I
come to him again and accept a retaining fee of 10 a
month? Naturally I was delighted. But when December
approached, and the season's books had been successfully
launched, it was evident that there was little left for me to
do. I could not expect payment for idleness, and foresaw
that in another month I should once more be out of a job.
The loss in money could be borne, for my cousin had very
generously intimated that he would make up my earnings
to the amount of my Rivington salary until I was in settled
employment, but the continued discouragement was less
tolerable.

Oppressed by this anxiety, I was walking along the
Embankment during my luncheon-hour when I ran into an
old acquaintance, Mushet of the Ballantyne Press. He was
on his way back from a visit to the President, then moored
close by, to return his R.N.V.R. rifle. Having at last given
up all hope of promotion in Tavistock Street, he had pur
chased some land in Tasmania, and was" going there in
search of a healthier and more active life. Nobody had
been appointed, as yet, to take his place, and his salary had
been 150. I walked straight up to Ballantyne's, offered
my services, and was engaged on the spot as book-keeper
from the beginning of the New Year, 1892, at a salary of
120. Mushet's venture did not, I believe, turn out
fortunately. Later he volunteered for the South African
War, and in the course of it succumbed to typhoid fever.
My place at Arnold's was filled by my friend Desborough
Walford, with whose clever mother, the novelist, and charm
ing family, I spent some pleasant week-ends in their fine
old house at Ilford.

J 37

SELF AND PARTNERS [1890-1892

Another memory is of revisiting Stratton and Bude with
my mother, a memory now grown faint except for one silly
adventure. Canon Bone, his sisters at Stratton, the Carnsews
at Poughill, were all hospitality, and with Johnny Carnsew,
afterwards killed in South Africa, I had a day's rough shoot
ing in the rain, using a borrowed muzzle-loading 12-bore.
Carnsew, knowing the gun, did the loading. At one point
I was just crossing a high-banked hedge when some birds
(they were rarities that day) got up. My first barrel missed
fire, my second produced an explosion which knocked me
clean over backwards into a ditch full of water, with a
hammer of the gun through my never attractive nose. Dis
tracted, no doubt, by my talk, Johnny had put both charges
into the left barrel. As the expedition bordered upon poach
ing, we had to patch the mess up privately, and trust to luck
and lying. Both held good.

Though a stool in a Covent Garden counting-house would
not satisfy an ordinary man's commercial ambition, the post
which I had thus, quite accidentally, obtained was not
without mitigating features. I was at last really earning
something by doing the common hack-work of the world,
with no help of privilege or patronage ; in humble surround
ings, yet with an unexpected variety of duties and visitors
to keep me interested. Had I only been able to add figures
more quickly and correctly, the actual book-keeping would
have been simple enough. As it was, when the firm's
accounts were audited at the end of six months, I was found
to be c out' to the extent of 2,100, xos. id. The missing
pounds were discovered almost at once, the ten shillings on
the following day, but the penny defied them all, until the
cheerful, sensible junior partner, from Scotland, produced
the sum from his pocket, and saved the expense of further
auditing. I was interested to find that this business of
entering and adding figures became a routine, making so
little demand upon the other parts of the mind as to
leave me quite fresh at the end of the week to start
drawing or anything else. Indeed the monotony of the

138

1890-1892] THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

work appeared, by contrast, to be an actual stimulus to
creation.

The counting-house occupied the ground floor, being
separated from the pavement of the market square only by
a big window. At the end of it, a small partition enclosed
the busy manager, Mr. Charles Me Call (twin-brother, in
his lighter mood, to Moroni's Lawyer), who in almost any
other firm would have been a partner, so completely was
the business under his control. At the desks with me sat
the clerks, George Massey, a quaint young Scot, and Charles
Stevens, a merry dog, who had once been manservant to
Godwin the architect, and so was on familiar terms with
Whistler and others of that group. The Whistler tradition
was strong in the office, which was stiUlittered with proofs
of The Gentle Art of making Enemies ' and full of memories
of his visits and conversation.

Below us rumbled and quivered the main machine-room,
so crowded with moving metal that to walk through it safely
needed experience, as on the days of official inspection it
needed a big lunch for the inspector, so that he could see
no further than the door. Cut out of a second machine-
room behind us lay a dismal little waiting-room, illumined
obscurely through the ground glass of the partition, and
warmed by a gas-fire which, for economy, was never lighted.
The record for endurance in it, fifty-three minutes, was held
in my time by the representative of an American firm. On
the floor above, Mr. Hanson enjoyed the use of a chair and
a desk reputed to have belonged to Sir Walter Scott, of
whom a muzzy portrait, very much 'after ' Raeburn, hung
over the fireplace, as a further reminder of the Ballantyne
tradition.

The hero of the place was disclosed to me only by accident.
A crowd gathered round our door, one day, with the
message, 'A man is killing his wife in the market. Will
Mr. Smith come, please ? ' In a few moments a smallish,
delicate-looking machine-minder, whom I had found the
quietest and most gentle of his kind, trudged out, still

SELF AND PARTNERS [1890-1892

aproned, meek and bareheaded. The crowd formed up
reverently in his wake, and off they all went to the scene
of trouble. In private life, it appeared, Smith was a well-
known prize-fighter, and more feared by the roughs of the
neighbourhood than any official guardians of the peace. A
less laudable diversion was afforded by two very well-known
society ladies. They dabbled rather prominently in litera
ture, among other things, and at one time drove together
regularly to Covent Garden, to pick up a tall young com
mercial traveller from a neighbouring office. For a while
he blossomed out in their carriage, bibulous and ludicrous,
with inappropriate top-hat and ill-fitting high collar ; then
he was seen no more.

From the cloistered interior of a publishing firm one gets
but a partial view of the world of letters. Only success,
complete or potential, gains admittance there; and of
successes, only those in the particular line of business which
the publisher runs. In that select environment I had inter
viewed authors frequently, as I had called officially on some
of the more famous University figures. But until I came to
the Ballantyne Press, the half had not been told me. There,
all sorts and conditions of writers called to inquire about
their proofs, from the editors of sporting papers, loud of
voice and lurid of tongue, to Cardinal Vaughan, as prince-
like in courtesy as in appearance.

Grant Allen I particularly remember. He came with
'something very important/ and would see no one but the
manager. Mr. Me Call was out. But a few minutes' reflec
tion in the twilight of our famous waiting-room was enough.
Grant Allen emerged and decided after all to unfold his
great business to me. He had translated the * Attis, ' which,
as he very kindly explained, was a Latin poem by Catullus.
To prove my interest I ventured to ask (since a prose version
seemed no occasion for trumpets) whether he had managed
to reproduce the original metre? He became quite snappy.
Henley too would sometimes hoist himself in, genial as ever,
but worn and battered, I thought, compared with his Edin-

140

1890-1892] THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

burgh days. More vivid still, and more pleasant, since it
left no thought of his physical handicap, is the vision of his
great Viking head and red beard protruding above sturdy
forearms and rolled-up shirt-sleeves, as he leaned over his
Westminster window-sill in the sunshine, at peace, for once,
with the world.

The messenger of destiny for me was no such conspicuous
figure, but a well-dressed little man, a Mr. Riley, whom I
never saw again. He called at the office to guarantee and
to get an estimate for a publication termed 'The Dial, 3 the
work of two artist friends. To explain the scale and char
acter of the production, he exhibited to me a large woodcut
by Reginald Savage. Its power, and its surprising compre
hension of Diirer, excited my keen admiration. At the
mention of Diirer 's name my visitor gave a perceptible jump,
discussed the project with me most frankly, and was sent in
due course the estimate he required. This was acknow
ledged a day later by a new figure, frail-looking, with a
pointed auburn beard and wavy hair : a Swinburne turned
Little Minister one might think, seeing the top-hat, black
Inverness cape and grave demeanour. It was Charles
Ricketts, looking then much as he looked some forty years
later, when I saw him for the last time. He brought with
him further material for 'The Dial, 5 and after settling the
details of production, invited me rather shyly, in Shannon's
name and his own, to come and see them in The Vale.

He had given me careful directions, so that in due course
I found the turning from King's Road, with its dirty white
posts, and groped my way in darkness, down a slope, to a
low house on the right among a few decrepit trees. Ricketts
welcomed me at the door, led me up to be introduced to
handsome, curly-haired Shannon, and then began to talk
as I had never heard mortal talk before. Titchener at
Brasenose had been brilliant, but his wit and eloquence
seemed almost pedantic in comparison with the flood oi
lively comment on art and letters which now enchanted me.
Incidentally I learned something about their house, which

141

SELF AND PARTNERS [1890-1892

had been Whistler's, their neighbours the De Morgans, their
likes and many dislikes, and their own joint plans for the
future. They showed me the work on' which they were
engaged, the things they were collecting, and when they
had thus done the honours of the place, they turned to what
I did myself. I had tried to draw but had made nothing of
it. Then I must bring my stuff the next Saturday after
noon for them to see.

I did so, quaking. The two looked gravely through my
poor bundle of little water-colours, now and then setting one
aside. Then Ricketts spoke. c Your things are quite accom
plished, but you don't know what you're doing. This, for
example, might have been a scrap by Whistler : that pile is
worthless. You must learn what drawing means, and take
up etching.' I protested that I knew nothing of the process.
Ricketts insisted on showing me. From the back room he
produced a copper-plate, poured some liquid ground over it,
and sketched my head and shoulders. The plate was
roughly bitten in my presence and the portrait revealed.
I should like to have had a print of it as a reminder.
Ricketts looked doubtfully at Shannon. 'It's not worth
keeping,' said Shannon ruthlessly, and it was destroyed
before my regretful eyes.

Nevertheless the encouragement of these brilliant beings
gave a new zest to life. Buying some small plates and
materials, I looked forward from my ledgers to the next
week-end when I could make the great experiment. On the
Saturday I etched one zinc plate from a sketch made on
Wimbledon Common; on the Sunday I did a second, a
memory of a machine-room interior. This last proved
coarse and stupid: the Wimbledon study looked more
promising, and was so well received at The Vale that I
returned happy and determined to try something more
elaborate. The next Saturday, I remember well, proved
light and warm ; I could see to draw detail, and the acid bit
happily on the copper. The little view near Rotterdam
came out just as I wished, except that some foreground

142

1890-1892] THE BALLANTYNE PRESS

weeds made a blot on the design. When I took the plate to
The Vale, Ricketts was quite excited, and insisted that I
must go on etching as hard as I could, although what I had
done was in part an accident. It might be years before I did
anything so good again; It was.

My efforts to follow his advice were assisted, in some ways,
by my mother's change of residence. She had never been
well in London, and decided therefore to move to Richmond
Hill, where, by the exceptional skill of Dr. John Williamson,
she was restored to a measure of health such as no London
specialist had dared to prognosticate. Richmond Hill was
too remote for anyone earning his daily bread so intensively
as I did. In consequence, a little panelled second floor at
No. 3 Cowley Street, Westminster (now No. 2), for some five
years accommodated my person and books; a tiny attic
above housed luggage, canvases and an etching-press.

Meanwhile, at Ballantyne's, I was finding it unwise to be
zealous overmuch. I got into one trouble by reporting an
overcharge of 30 per cent, on some paper, and endangering
some private commission: then into still worse trouble by
putting into practice one of Mr. Hanson's own maxims, c If
a publisher shows you a manuscript, never let it leave your
hands till you have got permission to estimate for it.'

My duties involved not only the making out of publishers 3
accounts, but also the collecting of them, with the settlement
of any minor disputes over details. Some publishers were
notorious hagglers. I can remember returning from a long
tussle with Messrs. X, and being received quite graciously
by the management because, in an account running to well
over three figures, I had succeeded in settling with a rebate
of no more than 35. 6d.

On the fatal occasion I was collecting the account of
Messrs. Longman, one of the most precious of the firm's
customers ; they paid cash quarterly. While the cheque was
being got ready for me, I took the opportunity of looking in
upon Mr. C. J. Longman, who had befriended me during
the Rivington transfer, to ask him whether there happened

143

SELF AND PARTNERS [1890-1892

to be any new work for which Ballantyne's could estimate.
'Well/ said he, 'there is Chisholm's Gazetteer/ indicating a
great bundle of brown paper on the floor. I thanked him
warmly, hoisted the heavy cube on to my shoulder, collected
the cheque, and staggered to Ludgate Hill and an omnibus.
When, at last, I dumped the thing down on the floor at
Tavistock Street, Mr. Hanson happened to be talking with
the manager, and naturally asked what I had brought in.
I explained ; hoping for a little commendation, since it was
a 1500 job. But he remarked, very coldly indeed, that he
had heard of the book, and had intended to go and see about
it himself next week. I was never again allowed to collect
Longmans' account.

Progress, in fact, was strictly barred; though I was
sufficiently trusted to be left in charge of the whole Press,
and of the work for the far larger printing establishment in
Edinburgh, for a fortnight in the summer when the prin
cipals were taking their holiday. But the barrage as regards
myself was not unreasonable : another aspirant, my friend
Service, possessing both solid private means and business
capacity, had arrived in the office. Having acquired this
junior string to his financial bow, Mr. Hanson, being natur
ally so politic that he avoided any final decision, could now
conveniently dispense with me. Hence when Mr. John C.
Nimmo, one of his publisher clients, needed assistance, my
name was warmly recommended to his notice, and I returned
to my original trade. My place as book-keeper fell to
Service ; he soon became as little satisfied with his prospects
as I had been ; joined the firm of Seeley and Co., and raised
it to the position which it now holds. In after years, when
Mr. Hanson began to feel the need of assistance, I could not
sympathize much with his expressions of regret that none of
his young men had been content to stay with him.

144

CHAPTER IX

JOHN C. NIMMO
(1892-1896)

Mr. Nimmo and his methods; 'remainders,* the 'Border
Edition * of Scott; William Strang; our American colleagues;
Sandy S ; Lord Ronald Gower; J. A. Symonds; attempt
to work out a theory of painting ; companions in Westminster ;
holidays at Wasdale and elsewhere; lost sketch-books; the
Theatre and the Opera ; business difficulties ; resignation.

MOST business men, in some sense or other, lead double lives.
My life between 1892 and 1896 became definitely tripartite.
At Cowley Street I breakfasted, dined, read, etched, painted,
boxed and slept. At King William Street I hearkened to the
voice of John C. Nimmo, made estimates, read proofs and
MS S., and wrote letters innumerable to printers, binders,
booksellers, authors, artists and Americans, receiving the
sum of 250 per annum for doing so. At The Vale, every
Friday night, I sat in silent awe while the most brilliant talk
I had ever heard darted, flashing and sparkling, over a world
of art and letters quite unknown to my lodgings or my office.
Years passed before I could establish any sort of relation
between my earth-bound mentality and this empyrean of
swift and lively spirits. Meanwhile I was thankful for per
mission to remain an unhelpful parasitic attache, an obscuie
and lightless satellite, for mind and body were fully occupied
in saving myself from becoming a burden upon my mother,
whose means were already straitened. Moreover I was
myself steadily sinking to the status of a poor relation, a
favourite phrase with certain well-to-do connexions whom
I could not altogether avoid. If I sometimes worked
rather too hard, I did so, I believe, quite as much from
the hope of disappointing those benevolent anticipations

145

SELF AND PARTNERS [1892-1896

of failure and dependence as from any more creditable
motive.

Since the firm of John C. Nimmo, like the Ballantyne
Press, is now a thing of the past, a short explanation of its
history and nature may be excused.

John Gumming Nimmo, though a queer mixture of con
trary qualities, was not a bad fellow. Genial and testy,
shrewd and simple, sharp and lavish, by some easily flattered,
to others incurably obstinate, he owed his modest success
rather to energy and good luck than to methodical fore
thought. Some few years before I met him, he had left the
Edinburgh firm of Nimmo, Hay and Mitchell to set up
independently in London, in partnership with Mr. Bain,
becoming sole owner of the business when Mr. Bain accepted
an official appointment at Toronto. His method was dia
metrically opposed to that of the Rivingtons. The Riving-
tons were content with steady returns, arriving automatically
year after year ; Nimmo made and took his profit at once.
The Rivingtons neither sought nor required support from
the booksellers: Nimmo relied largely upon booksellers'
help and advice for shaping his own course.

But the booksellers whom Nimmo consulted were not the
retailers of new books, then almost ruined by foolish com
petition in giving discounts to the public. His intimates
were the second-hand booksellers, a relatively learned and
prosperous body, in days when men had still the money and
the space for libraries. Being the authorities whom col
lectors of books frequented and consulted, the experience of
such booksellers could be of considerable value to any pub
lisher who was willing to adapt his wares to the wants of
their clientele. Handsome library editions, limited editions,
large-paper editions, for which the attraction of being ' Out
of Print ' could generally be claixned, were the needs of the
moment, and to these Nimmo devoted his attention with
considerable if fluctuating success.

Should a good standard book become exceedingly rare, he
would reprint it, provided that the plates and similar essen-

146

1892-1896] JOHN C. NIMMO

tials could be bought from their previous owners. Now and
then his optimistic temper led him to print too many copies,
as he did "with Stirling Maxwell's 'Annals of the Artists of
Spain'; a mistake which would have involved him in a
ruinous loss had not the mass of superfluous sheets been dis
posed of by a timely fire at the binders', A happier invest
ment was the series of Natural History books by the Rev.
F. O. Morris. Having purchased the blocks and plates of
'British Birds/ 'Moths and Butterflies/ 'Nests and Eggs/
he was able to reprint them regularly and profitably, until
the more scientific works of Lord Lilford and others rendered
Morris obsolete. The words 'coloured by hand' had a
certain magic about them for the half-educated public, and
the painting of the cuts in these books, and the plates in
certain sporting reprints, amounted at times to quite a
respectable industry. This reprint business was supple
mented by a trade in the remaining copies of standard books*
grown comatose or moribund. John Murray for some years
was a regular source of supply. The results occasionally
were curious. Among the 'remainders' thus purchased,
bound up and resold at a reduced price, was Crowe and
Cavalcaselle's ' Life of Titian.' When I wanted, a year later,
to get a copy for myself, I found that the eager public
demand for the 'remainder' had made the book a rarity
more expensive than when it was first published.

Such derivative activities did not exhaust or satisfy
Mr. Nimmo's ambition. He was genuinely fond of hand
some books, and aspired to a place among the best London
publishers in virtue of the quality of his products. That
delightful, wizened cynic, Henry van Laun, had introduced
him to the byways of Continental literature, and therewith
to John Addington Symonds. Symonds began by trans
lating the 'Memoirs of Count Carlo Gozzi.' But the
Venetian theatre made much less appeal to the general
public than did his next translation, 'The Autobiography
of Benvenuto Cellini.' This reads as if it were itself an
original work, and may well outlive all the translator's other

H7

SELF AND PARTNERS [1892-1896

literary efforts. In 1892, when I came to King William
Street, Symonds was engaged upon a new 'Life of Michel
angelo Buonarroti, 3 to be produced in similar style. It was
a scholarly product, but the author's critical insight was not
equal to his rhetorical fluency, so that the repute of the
book has not survived the passage of time. America in those
days was a prosperous book-market, and the profit on the
* Cellini' and the "Michelangelo ' was materially swelled by
the large editions which Messrs. Scribner purchased through
their breezy London representative Lemuel W. Bangs.

Another American firm, Estes and Lauriat of Boston, was
associated with Nimmo in a still greater enterprise: the
issue of the Waverley Novels in 48 volumes, edited by
Andrew Lang, and illustrated with 288 etchings. It was
the labour of preparing this ' Border Edition* that led to
my services being requisitioned. Owing to the American
copyright law, the text had to be printed from plates made
in America, the proofs being read and re-read in London.
The production of the etched illustrations was Nirnmo's con
cern, and the first experiments made with 'Waverley,' c Guy
Mannering' and 'The Antiquary' were so feeble, being
based chiefly on old engravings or pictures, that Mr. H.
Macbeth-Raeburn had been called in to introduce new
methods and new men.

Among the artists thus commissioned, his brother Robert
Macbeth came first, to my thinking. His little plates, par
ticularly the series in 'The Fortunes of Nigel,' display not
only Macbeth's wonted spirit and vigorous rhythm, but
unexpected qualities of humour and character., proving that
in him the country possessed a really great illustrator. It
is unlucky that his talent was not directed more frequently
into that channel. The youthful D. Y. Cameron and
William Strang were other notable contributors, and, at the
very tail of the list, I came myself, being allowed by Macbeth-
Raeburn to etch a plate for 'The Pirate/ a plate most
heartily disliked by our American partners. Their favourite
was the French etcher Lalauze ; he was certainly a wonderful

148

1892-1896] JOHN C. NIMMO

craftsman. Our illustrator for 'Quentin Durward' had
failed us at the eleventh hour : only a month was left for the
designing and etching of a dozen plates. In desperation
Nlmmo wired to Lalauze ; the commission was accepted and
fulfilled to the day. A considerable proportion of the Scott
etchings were reproductive, being made from wash drawings
by well-known illustrators, of whom Wai Paget and William
Hatherell were perhaps the most skilful. Comparison and
criticism of these plates taught me much about the uses of
the etched line ; I learned still more from talks with Macbeth-
Raeburn and Strang.

Strang's early etchings in the 'Portfolio 5 had been objects
of admiration and collection since my Oxford days. His
personality, now that I was privileged to know him, was no
less invigorating than his work. He encouraged my humble
attempts at drawing and painting, exhorted me to drop my
niggling ways (what he called bot'ny), to use line and mass
more broadly, and in 1893 backed my candidature for the
Royal Society of Painter-Etchers. I was opposed, as an
imitator of Rembrandt ( !), and rejected by one vote, but
had the consolation of hearing that Seymour Haden had
been among my supporters. Strang's lessons sank rather
slowly into my dull brain, but sink they did, and my artistic
debt to his friendship is second only to that due to Ricketts
and Shannon. The edition of ' The Pilgrim's Progress ' con
taining his etchings, which Nimmo issued, has always seemed
to me one of the most satisfactory and desirable of the firm's
publications ; much better than the volume of illustrations
to e Paradise Lost, 3 a theme less suited to Strang's racy
genius, although the set contains in The Creation of Eve one
veritable masterpiece.

The punctual issue every month of two volumes of Scott,
in addition to other publications, would have involved some
strain upon Nimmo's little staff, even if there had been no
attendant difficulties. But our American colleagues were
sharp men of business, charging so many extras to the joint
account that we, in self-defence, had to do the same. Hence

SELF AND PARTNERS [1892-1896

arose an endless, acrimonious correspondence over details,
the more comic and the more futile because each firm had
to keep faith with its subscribers, and could not afford an
actual rupture. So threats of repudiating bills continued to
be met by threats of withholding illustrations, while the
work went steadily forward. Nimmo understood the men
with whom he -was dealing. Neither Lauriat nor his
manager Jackson (afterwards the well-known impresario of
the Encyclopedia Britannica), on their visits to England,
raised more than perfunctory complaints, and when the
great final dispute was over, the Americans, to my surprise,
dropping all their moral indignation, their resentful pro
tests, complimented Nimmo on his handling of the business,
admitted that they had met their match, and tried to get
him to join them in a second and still larger venture of the
same kind.

The mere mass of proof-reading involved was by itself
considerable, and to cope with it a Scottish reader had been

specially engaged. Sandy S became a friend from the

day when I found him lying drunk on the floor of his room,
and kicked and drenched him into presentability. Always
a man of adventures, he bore a great scar on his face, a
wedding present given with a champagne bottle by a smart
lady whom he did not marry. Later, I fear, he got into
more serious trouble.

Before Sandy came to Nimmo, he had worked at Spottis-
woode's, and had been present at the dinner given to Dr.
Spottiswoode on his retirement. One of the staff asked
leave to read a poem he had composed for the occasion.
It began :

4 Who is this man, so great and good,
That bears the name of Spottiswoode? '

Dr. Spottiswoode was visibly flattered. But when the poem,
continued :

6 He gives us work to earn our bread.
By doing this we are not dead.'
150

1892-1896] JOHN C. NIMMO

there was a roar of laughter, and the too veracious author
was immediately suppressed. Sandy himself, being proud
of his knowledge of Scottish dialects, was not invulnerable.
I once asked him the meaning of the nonsense from c The
Bab Ballads ' c Hech, thrawfu 3 raltie, rorkie, 5 etc. Having
puzzled over it solemnly for two days with his glossaries and
dictionaries, he reported that he had found it to be c a
mer-re meaningless jingle/

Lord Ronald Gowers's * Joan of Arc ' gave me my most
troublesome piece of proof-reading. He had been intro
duced to us by Symonds, and when we remonstrated about
the MS. with which we were landed, Symonds cynically
replied that Lord Ronald was a Duke's son, and could not
therefore be judged by ordinary standards. Though written
with enthusiasm and some knowledge, the style of the work
was so incredibly careless that mere correction was not
nearly enough. I had to take it home and spend my
evenings in rewriting it. But the author, far from resenting
the changes, welcomed them gratefully, raised not a single
objection, and was rewarded for his complaisance by the
reviews, which greeted it as the best thing he had ever done.
Rumour attributed Lord Ronald's proficiency in the field
of sculpture also to the assistance of clever 'ghosts. 5 Yet his
statue of Lady Macbeth, washing her hands, of which he
showed me a cast at Trebovir Road, seemed to me remark
ably fine, an impression not due to my host's excellent
Chambertin, for the bronze at Stratford-on-Avon is equally
striking, so fine, that the original creative impulse must
have been his own, though the details may well have been
revised, as in the c joan of Arc, 3 by another. We could
hardly fail to have heard more of the c ghost 3 if the Lady
Macbeth had been ghost-work from start to finish. It is
among the most effective products of the period.

Symonds's own 'Autobiography' was another source of
trouble. The manuscript was deliberately outspoken on
many matters which are usually handled with reticence, so
that Horatio Brown, Symonds's friend and editor, exercised

SELF AND PARTNERS [1892-1896

little more than ordinary discretion in cutting out the most
intimate self-revelations. But a straiter critic had then to
take a hand. The proofs, already bowdlerized, were com
pletely emasculated, so that frank < Confessions, 3 which
might have made some little stir In the world (indeed that
was generally expected), emerged as pure commonplace.
In their anxiety to be safe about ethical and physical
peculiarities, the revisers overlooked two pleasant misprints^
which I corrected just before the proofs went to press. One
was a reference to niy friend Mr. Goose'; the other
included among the great satisfactions of a well-spent life
'the company of noblemen/

Much of this proof-reading had to be done in the evening
at Cowley Street, the day being otherwise engaged. But
there were occasions when I could attend to my own affairs ;
the most important, of course, being the business of learning
how to draw and to paint. Reynolds' s c Discourses' (the
most encouraging thing ever written upon Art), Hogarth's
c Analysis of Beauty,' John Burnet's ponderous 'Treatise, 3
with Ricketts, Japanese prints and Strang, all superimposed
upon Ruskin and Hamerton, made such an amorphous con
glomeration of ideas and theories that it became necessary
to think the whole thing out afresh, starting from first prin
ciples. With this intention, I laboriously composed several
chapters of a pictorial eirenicon, a childish forerunner of
'The Science of Picture-Making.' At the same time, in
1893, I started painting little landscapes in oil, using only
one brush, from sheer ignorance that real painters used
several. On Sunday morning the programme was varied.
Any friend who called might have his portrait painted, if
he would only sit quite still for an hour or two. One
obeyed my order so faithfully that, as he asseverated, the
pattern of my cane-bottomed chair was impressed on his
person for several days. His likeness, however, turned out
unusually well.

Congenial company was never lacking in this Westminster
backwater. Laurence Binyon lodged in Great College

152

LAURENCE BINYON
After an etching by William Strang

1892-1896] JOHN C. NIMMO

Street ; his bed, and all else in his room, being almost buried
under review-books. He shared my enthusiasm for Strang,
under whose guidance we both made essays in wood-
engraving. Harold Child from Brasenose, Arthur Lowry
from Eton, and the Rev. H. N. Hutchinson, author of
* Extinct Monsters, * were fellow-lodgers, Cochrane, the
Herald, lived just opposite. To Barton Street, rather later,
came my friend Cripps, and G. Mayer, now of ColnaghTs,
but then engaged in mastering Dlirer and Rembrandt on a
diet of prunes, oranges and nuts.

The most impressive of all my visitors was an almost for
gotten junior of my Canterbury days, A. H. Turner, now
grown into a tall, dark and rather exciting young man.
Entering the service of the Niger Company at the age of
seventeen, he had quickly mastered the languages of West
Africa and the Koran (the true key, he explained, to general
intercourse), until he could pass anywhere as a native. As
such he had travelled on foot to the then almost unknown
city of Kano, and now was discussing plans for the future
with Mr. Joseph Chamberlain. Turner had not over
estimated his own capacity. When Benin was conquered,
he was appointed its first Resident, and there fever brought
his meteoric career to an end at the age of twenty-six.

For exercise indoors I relied upon boxing with footballers
from St. Thomas's Hospital, and with my powerful friend
Desborough Walford, one of whose blows I have reason to
remember. It advanced under my too hasty guard like the
buffer of a locomotive, caught me on the chin, and lifted me
off my feet into the glass of a picture on the wall behind.
Golf at Tooting Bee, among nursemaids and perambulators,
though amusing, was found to waste valuable time. Long
walks in the Home Counties had the doubtful advantage of
setting me to work upon bright red tiles, green fields, fluffy
trees and purple heather, totally unsympathetic material,
over which I wasted much paint, paper and canvas. I tried
also a few figure compositions, the most ambitious being a
nude Andromeda, painted from my own bony person with

153

SELF AND PARTNERS [1892-1896

some difficulty and a looking-glass, who showed too many
traces of her origin to have tempted even a sea-monster.
When my friend Child was playing the part of an artist in
Harry Paulton's Company at the Strand Theatre, the con
tents of my attic were requisitioned to furnish his stage studio,
and so appeared in public for the first time. But even in
that not too exacting environment, I noticed that poor
Andromeda was allowed to show to the audience only her
canvas back.

In May 1893, being granted a sudden holiday, I went
alone to the Wasdale Hotel, in search of fresh air and
exercise. I had lost a stone in weight since leaving Oxford,
and had been more than once in the doctor's hands. Old
Will Ritson was dead, but under Tyson, his successor at the
hotel, the simple fare and accommodation (O the beefsteaks
and the bathroom !) were unchanged. The company there
.was of the very best, climbers all, but my attraction, at first,
was the fishing. With the idea that the most inaccessible
waters would provide the best sport, I dragged a 12 -foot fly
rod up to Scoat Tarn, with no result. Sprinkling Tarn also
was drawn blank, but here the day was hot, I had taken Sty
Head at a run, and my temper was up. The tarn looked
shallow and not over-chilly ; I would see whether the place
did really contain the trout mentioned in Jenkinson's guide
book. Plunging in, I swam down, exploring the depths in
every direction, only to find them thickly, incredibly thickly,
populated with large minnows. So disgusted was I that on
my way back I never troubled to cast a fly on Sty Head
Tarn, which really does contain trout. In the becks I did
little better, till it occurred to me to get up at five in the
morning. Then I began at once to catch respectable fish.
On Wastwater they seemed to take only between 8 and 10
o'clock at night. Hiring a tub of a boat from Strands, I
rowed it up to the head of the lake, and went out trailing the
fly every night after dinner, always catching fish, and having
the rest of the day free for walking and climbing.
Among the visitors to the hotel was a frail Mr. Baum-

1892-1896] JOHN C. NIMMO

gartner, over eighty years of age, who had been one of the
very first to climb the Pillar Rock, and was still a mountain
eering enthusiast. He alarmed us one day in the momentary
absence of his nurse, by illustrating, between the doorposts
of the hotel, the proper method of climbing a rock-chimney,
and attaining by tremulous gymnastics a height from which
a slip would certainly have been fataL After spending one
unsuccessful afternoon on the Pillar, uninstructed and by
myself, I was taken there again by a queer, friendly, learned,
loquacious Rabelaisian parson who sported a rope and an
ice-axe. Being duly roped, I passed the Slab and Notch, my
previous point of stoppage, at the cost of a few biting com
ments upon my caution. But when my critic had stretched
a leg on the Slab to follow me, he paused long, and then
withdrew it, saying, 'My nerve is not what it was'; so I
crept up to the summit alone. After verifying Mr. Baum-
gartner's place at the beginning of the old notebook in the
cairn, I was scribbling my name in its successor, when a loud
clap of thunder crashed overhead. Terror of my eminence
on that isolated rock ousted all terror of the cliffs around me.
I slithered and scrambled down into safety and torrential
rain, with a speed which proved that the difficulties had been
mostly those of imagination. My clerical friend, at dinner,
insisted on a bottle of hock, to celebrate appropriately the
fact that WE had climbed the Pillar.

In the course of my scrambles on Scawfell, and elsewhere,
I made a number of careful little drawings, but they mostly
contained only details without substance. In consequence
they proved of little practical service compared with a couple
of hasty blots of effects noticed when fishing in the early
morning, clouds rolling off the Pillar Mountain and Great
Gable. These two subjects had all the massive grandeur and
simplicity of tone which the Surrey landscape lacked, and
the thought of them drew me back again and again to the
North. When I returned, half a stone heavier, from that
strenuous fortnight among our little but very real mountains,
even the larger buildings of London looked strangely petite.

SELF AND PARTNERS [1892-1896

The subjects collected during the next two years, 1894
1895, were almost immediately lost to me with the sketch
books which contained them. One book was left in a railway
carriage, and the finder must have callously disregarded the
plea for its return which I had written plainly at the end.
The second not only bore my address, but the generous offer
of 2s. 6d. to the finder ; an offer which failed to tempt the
appreciative workman who filched the book from my Cowley
Street lodgings when they were being repainted. In addition
to notes made during two trips on the Continent, which I
have now almost completely forgotten, these books included
a number of rather elaborate studies in Norfolk, in Con
stable's country and in the Ullswater district.

The loss of the East Anglian group I particularly regret.
Norwich at that time hardly differed from the Norwich of
John Crome, To row on the Yare, the Wensum or the
Bure among picturesque tumble-down buildings, past slopes
crowned with old towers, windmills or solemn shadowy trees,
with reedy flats below and expanses of water providing fore
grounds, was to discover theme after theme for designs of a
kind inconceivable in the busy modern city, with its big
up-to-date hotels, its roaring clanging tramways, its blazing
arc-lamps. The windy beauty of Dedham Vale was another
surprise, so exactly did it resemble Constable's pictures and
sketches. Only at Manningtree, Langham and Boxted could
I find good subjects which he had overlooked, and which I
could therefore misuse without seeming to be a mere imitator.

Of all the Continental sketches that thus went astray I can
now recall only one; a study of the solemn, tumbled
boulders at Apremont. But there were also several experi
ments in simplification and vivid colour the loss of which
was really a nuisance, since their partial success might have
shortened the road of escape from dingy realism. The
Ullswater sketches, being made in monotonously fine
weather, were less inspiring : indeed the weather drove me
to other amusements.

At night I wasted hours in trolling on the lake for salmo

156

1892-1896] JOHN C NIMMO

fewx ; a fish which (confound Mr. Cholmondeley Pennell !)
does not exist there. By day I scrambled over the fells,
finding the crags above Mardale to be splendid practice-
ground for an amateur, and had a run up and down Hel-
vellyn, in under two hours, on my way to Windermere. A
second visit to the Lakes was even less fruitful as regards
painting, for I spent all my time over some imitation trout,
made out of discarded etching-plates, and carefully coloured
in oil. One of these, by some magical accident, swayed and
swooped through the water exactly like a disabled fish. At
Lakeside it caught two pike in the first ten minutes, and
then hooked a three-pound trout, which broke the trace
with a final kick on the edge of the landing-net. When he
slowly vanished into the depths, the copper fish still hanging
vertical from his jaw, my fortune vanished too. All the
similar baits proved useless. I could never recapture the
secret of that one irresistible curve, that enchanting wobble.
Pressure of work left few opportunities for diversions in
London. A ragged, flickering film of the Corbett-Fitz-
simmons fight, at the Westminster Aquarium, introduced me
to the e movies, 3 and to the excitement of real heavy-weight
boxing. The Granville Dicksons favoured the Court Theatre
and took me with them several times to laugh at Mrs. John
Wood. Arthur Dickson, when visiting London, would rouse
me out of my Westminster seclusion to see Vesta Tilley,
Bessie Bellwood and that lot at the Tivoli ; e Mrs. Ebbsmith/
C A Woman of No Importance' and 'Lady Windermere's
Fan 3 at the Haymarket, or 'The Importance of Being
Earnest' at the St. James', surely the best farce of its age?
Oscar Wilde's dialogue, at this time, seemed to infect all
London. For 'Lady Windermere's Fan' we could only get
seats in the gallery, the rest of the house being crowded. At
that distance from the stage it was not easy to catch all that
was said. Presently a girl behind us remarked, rather
petulantly, 'One can't hear anything up here.' Oh
well! 3 replied her companion, 'that is the privilege of the
gods. 3 My friend Cripps, too, would appear now and then

SELF AND PARTNERS [1892-1896

with tickets for such things as 'Madame Sans-Gene 5 with
Rejane, or 'Hamlet' with Sarah Bernhardt. This was an
extraordinary performance, Sarah being the only Hamlet I
have seen who was unmistakably royal,, a prince of the blood
from first to last. Ophelia was played by a frail little flapper,
whose end seemed sheer child-murder, a deed of pity and
fear overshadowing all that followed, for which the pile of
corpses at the last seemed the one conceivable expiation.
When the part of Ophelia is taken by some experienced and
possibly mature leading lady, the need for any such dramatic
atonement does not arise, and Hamlet's death appears quite
unmerited bad luck.

Talk about Wagner brought me early to Covent Garden,
where the Overture to c Tannhauser,' heard for the first time,
so thrilled and exhausted me that I was deaf to Maurel and
the rest. * Lohengrin* with the brothers de Reszke provided
another sensation. Jean looked and sang as a semi-divine
hero should do. Never was more perfect phrasing, but he
lounged through his part with the easy swagger of a spoiled
stage-darling, to the destruction of all dramatic veracity.
Max Alvary in c Siegfried ' was really more convincing. Not
only did he look the part, but the final scene with Fraulein
Klafsky as Brunnhilde was sung with a fire and passion
which Siegfrieds can rarely summon up after the two
gruelling acts which come before. Being totally ignorant of
music, I could enjoy these performances only in the light of
the sensations which they induced, but I was interested
many years later to find that Claude Phillips counted this
Alvary-Klafsky combination as the finest rendering of
c Siegfried 3 which he had ever heard in all his long experi
ence of English and Continental productions.

Apart from these occasional treats, my excursions from the
daily round of work seldom went beyond evening visits to
the grill-room at South Kensington Museum, with its big
bearded cook, its sizzling chops and steaks, followed by a
stroll round the almost deserted galleries under the hissing
uncertain arc-lamps, or to the quiet Library. Some know-

158

1892-1896] JOHN C. NIMMO

ledge presumably was assimilated in this desultory fashion :
later the visits grew more regular and definite in their
purpose. The evening opening of Galleries and Museums
may never attract great crowds ; yet the few who do go are
sure to be real students, and some justification for the
expense involved. In the Library, for example, I met my
old school-fellow Carr-Bosanquet, already the possessor, as
it seemed to me, of an exceptional knowledge of Greek
Antiquities, and then standing for a junior assistant's place
in the British Museum. But in the examination (they
manage these things more sensibly now) he was ploughed in
some such subject as Quadratic Equations, only to rise a few
years later, after a series of distinguished achievements, to
the Directorship of the British School at Athens.

My one other diversion, the Friday evenings passed with
Ricketts and Shannon, had such a direct connexion with
the years to follow, that any comment upon them may be
postponed until the remaining phases of my work with
Nimmo have been briefly sketched. Memory plays queer
tricks and, but for the discovery of an old bundle of letters,
I should certainly have misrepresented the history of this
unsatisfactory time.

The agreement with Nimmo stipulated that I should act
as manager for one year, and then be admitted to a junior
partnership. At the end of the year he insisted on a post*
ponement. The Waverley Novels and other books had
proved exceedingly profitable, and he said, quite frankly, that
he did not see why I should share in the benefit from schemes
which I had not helped to originate] As I had worked like
a horse at them all, this seemed rather hard. Yet I did not
like breaking with him and being once more out of a job a
so I gave way. Worse things were to follow.

When the time did come for drawing up a partnership
agreement, I had to see about getting the capital originally
promised, "either without interest or at a nominal rate. 3
The sum was 2000, which had previously been lent to
Nimmo, when I came to him, at 4 per cent, interest. My

SELF AND PARTNERS [1892-1896

cousin's solicitors informed me that the rate would now be
5 per cent. , and that the amount should be covered by an
Insurance Policy, making 8 per cent., or more, in all. The
proposal shocked and angered me, not only because accept
ance meant slavery for years if not for life, a perpetuity of
indebted poor-relationship, but still more by its contrast to
the friendly and generous treatment I had hitherto received,
and had been led to expect. After consulting my mother,
her family solicitors and Nimmo, I rejected the proposal.
Nimmo was prepared to keep me on as manager at my old
salary, and offers were made in other quarters for providing
me with the sum required. Then the solicitors reopened
negotiations on the 5 per cent, basis. To have held out
would have involved a family quarrel, so I accepted the loan
on those terms and became a very junior partner.

Nimmo at this time was involved in litigation with Messrs.
Quantin of Paris, over certain imperfect copies of a sumptu
ous work on Sevres Porcelain which he had bought from
them. He obtained a judgment, by consent, in the King's
Bench 3 but had no means of enforcing it except by further
proceedings in Paris, which his lawyer unhappily encour
aged. Direct liability for this interminable lawsuit I was
resolute to avoid ; indeed the cost of proceeding vainly from
one French court to another eventually swallowed up most
of the profit which Nimmo had made in the preceding years.
More personal difficulties arose over an elaborate work on
'Naval and Military Trophies* which my uncle Richard
Holmes introduced to us. The material for illustration was
an elaborate series of water-colour drawings by William
Gibb, R.S.A., really most able things; round these the
battle raged. The cost of making facsimiles by chromo-
Kthography would be very great; more, far more, than I
thought we should risk on a single book. Nimmo, always
fond of fine things, would be content with nothing less,
rejecting with contumely the more economic scheme of
reproduction by copper-plates printed in colour. Finally I
agreed to abide by the opinion of the booksellers who would

1 60

1892-1896] JOHN C. NIMMO

handle the publication. This was reported to be entirely
favourable, and 1 gave my consent accordingly. But when
the book appeared, the subscriptions were barely one-fifth

of what was expected. I made private inquiry and found
that dubious advance reports had been edited for my benefit,
unfavourable ones suppressed. A lucky coup by our clever
traveller ultimately reduced the loss to moderate dimensions,
but my confidence was badly shaken.

There were further reasons for anxiety. My mother,
wishing that I should not be too greatly indebted to what
now seemed a grudging source of support, had taken over
one-half of my 2000 share in the concern. If by any
further mischance of business that sum should be diminished
or lost, her sole means of living would be imperilled. Yet ail
my attempts to introduce new and less risky elements into
the firm's programme were met with a stubborn conservatism
against which it was vain to contend. 'What had sold in
the past would continue to sell/ The smallest change at
last came to involve long hours, nay days, of persuasion, as
trying to the temper of both parties as they were costly in
point of time. No business carried on in such conditions
could prosper.

Yet the alternative was disheartening; to confess frankly
to failure, to give up the results, such as they were, of years
of exceptionally hard work, and to start all over again. To
be once more 'on the streets* might be no engaging pros
pect, yet could it really be as intolerable as the burden of my
present apprehensions? I had the chance of retiring at
Midsummer 1896 if I chose to take it, and went accordingly
to Richmond, to consult my mother, on whose good sense
I could rely. After hearing the two sides of the case, she
considered me to be so badly worried that I ought to take
the risk of leaving.

Having agreed to this desperate plunge, I proceeded to
join a party on the river, and in their company rowed up
to some islet or other for a picnic tea. As we were boiling
the kettle, my hostess recognized a girl in another group of

161

SELF AND PARTNERS [1892-1896

picnickers. She came across to us for a few minutes. In the
course of casual talk I heard a question, 'Have you done
any palmistry of late? ' I had always wondered whether
there was any truth at all in these pseudo-sciences, so
summoned up courage to ask this total stranger whether she
would be so good as to look at my hand, and held it out.
She took it, thought over it a moment, and then said,
"Well, you are making, or are about to make, the greatest
change in your life.' When I asked the reason for this
unexpected guess at truth, she at once showed me the mark
upon which she relied, and expressed no surprise on being
told that, just two hours before, I had decided to give up
my present profession.

Writing the fatal letter was made no easier by the receipt
of a very cheerful and friendly note from Nimmo, who was
away fishing Loch Laggan, accompanied by a present of
trout. But it had to be done, and he took the announcement
very well, merely asking me to stay on for a little until out
standing details of business could be cleared up. I had
known for a month or two that Ricketts and Shannon found
the starting of their little shop in Warwick Street to be
unexpectedly troublesome, and that the manager (appointed
at my suggestion) was leaving them. In consequence they
were glad to have my help to put their affairs in order while
I looked about for another job. So the reward of seven
years' really hard work at publishing and printing came to
be a salary of 80 a year, and a place behind the counter
of a tiny shop.

162

CHAPTER X

THE VALE PRESS

(1896-1903)

Ricketts and Shannon; their friends and ideals; my literary
and artistic education; Oscar Wilde; *The Sphinx' and
'Salome*; move from The Vale to Beaufort St. ; W. L. Ha con;
the Vale Press started ; the shop in Warwick Stu ; John Lane ;
the sport of collecting; impressions of Italy Ricketts and
Glutton-Brock.

RICKETTS and Shannon during the first few evenings at The
Vale told me almost all about themselves which I was ever
to know. Shannon, fresh, plump and curly-haired, was
actually the senior of the two. At St. John's.* Leatherhead,
he had some repute as a footballer; then he became a
teacher at the Croydon Art School, 'with heaps of friends
until Ricketts quarrelled with them.' It was difficult to
believe that Ricketts in the spring of 1892, with Ms high
forehead, pointed beard and intellectual precocity, was only
twenty-five. He talked upon art, letters and life with the
conviction and shrewdness of complete maturity. Of his
early days he said little, except that he had disappointed his
father by not proving an athlete and a lover of field sports,
and that much of Ms boyhood had been spent in France, his
spiritual home. He and Shannon had become friends at
Croydon, had started life together in the Kennington Road,
and were now settling down to an agreed programme wMch
had in it something of the heroic.

Shannon, they decided, was to be the great painter. He
had already exhibited with some credit at the Grosvenor
Gallery in 1887, and two of these early products Will he
come in?, figuring, as they say, a mammoth, red and angry
at the edge of an ice-bound pool, wherein sMvered sundry

163

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

apprehensive specimens of primeval man, and a smaller
panel, Benaiah killing the Lion, still occupied places of dis
honour in a back room at The Vale. But Shannon was not
to exhibit again until he appeared as the complete and
undeniable master, upon whose princely income Ricketts
then proposed to live in ease for the rest of his life. Until
that great day came Shannon's painting would be done in
private, watched and criticized by Ricketts alone, and the
painter would work for their common welfare only when
collaboration was required, or necessity compelled. It was
upon Ricketts that the main burden was laid of providing
for immediate wants, by drawing illustrations, advertisements
or anything else which would bring in a little money.

Ricketts told me how once in Bond Street he was drawing
some ladies' stockings in a shop, for a catalogue of such
wares. The pattern of one specimen did not show clearly.
'Would you like to see it on?' asked the manageress, to his
great embarrassment, until he found that only a lay-figure
leg was to be shown to him. Pen-drawings, in the style of
Edwin Abbey, were a further source of income. One of
these caught the eye of Leighton, who ascertained Ricketts's
address, asked him to call, and commissioned a drawing of
any subject he pleased, for five pounds, with the remark
(rather touching in the mouth of a famous and popular
P.R.A.), c Pm afraid you won't care for my work, but I am
interested in yours.' The resultant drawing, placed by the
President with two other favourites, c my Walter West and
my Anning Bell/ represented Oedipus and the Sphinx. At
the Leighton sale Ricketts repurchased this delicate and
elaborate specimen of his early style : it now belongs to
Sir William Rothenstein.

Though Sturge Moore the poet, and the maker of some
fine original woodcuts, remained the most intimate friend
of the couple at The Vale, Reginald Savage at one period
did, I think, more work in their company. I still possess
a little drawing of Ricketts, with a narcissus drooping from
his hand, being taken for a walk between a dishevelled

164

THE PIPING TIMES O PEACE

The evening of August 25, 1893- A Discussion about the Theatre.
Drawn by Ricketts.

J. C. NIMMO AFTER LUNCHING A CUSTOMER
Drawn by the author.

1896-1903] THE VALE PRESS

Savage and an authoritative top-hatted Shannon. As an
artist Savage displayed exceptional talent. His woodcut of
Behemoth, which had so impressed me at Ballantyne's, was
not more masterly than his pen-and-ink drawings in the
Pre-Raphaelite manner, of which specimens may be found
in 'The Dial/ Savage, however, could not remain content
with the meagre rewards which attend original design and
scrupulous workmanship. To Ricketts's regret, he drifted
off to make a living as an illustrator in a manner less exacting
and much better paid.

At first Ricketts and Shannon were often to be found
alone, and in long evenings with them I was introduced to
a literature and art very unlike the canonical classics of my
schooldays. Baudelaire and Verlaine, Huysmans and
Villiers de X/Isle Adam, with Forain, Puvis and Gustave
Moreau for pictorial accompaniment, were deities I had
now to reckon with, and try to reconcile privately with my
older Olympians. All Ricketts's enthusiasm, however, failed
to inspire rne with his sense of the high place in life which
the Theatre should occupy. Indeed a melancholy reminder
of my rudeness in opposing him on this point remains in
a little caricature. I sit with glaring eyes. I smoke a
colossal curly pipe. With a monstrous arm I hit Shannon
on the nose, while Ricketts weeps into a dish on the floor,
flattened out by a no less monstrous foot in a spiked boot.
These talks would last for hours. Then, towards one in the
morning, Shannon would disappear and return bearing a
big tray with rolled tongue, bread and butter, quince jam
(a speciality of these meals) and great cups of steaming
cocoa. Surely no clerk was ever so fortunate in his friends !

My kindly, worldly old cousin Mrs. Toynbee (Arnold's
mother) frequently received me at Queen Anne's Mansions.
I remember finding her there on Sunday afternoons, dozing,
propped up in her great chair, with some big serious book
on the reading-desk before her, and a French novel on her
lap underneath. She was seriously alarmed by what she
regarded as my descent into Bohemia. She had known

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

Rossetti and his circle, and said that there was too much
champagne about Bohemia for her liking. When I told her
about the cocoa the old lady was reassured, and a little
disappointed.

Ricketts had for some years worked with Oscar Wilde as
an illustrator and a designer of bindings. Wilde, now en
gaged upon c The Sphinx ' and c Salome/ became for a time
a constant visitor at The Vale, and with his visits the evenings
there assumed a new character. Personally he was a sur
prise. Knowing him only by repute as an aesthete, and
having met at Oxford a languid specimen of the breed in
brown velvet and knee-breeches, I was prepared for a super-
Postlethwaite, conceited and affected. Instead I was intro
duced to a big handsome man, well groomed and well
dressed, whose manner to Ricketts tempered laughing assur
ance with so much friendship and respect as to be immedi
ately attractive. That Wilde was kindly and good-natured
was no less evident than that he bubbled over with wit, did
not take enough exercise, and would soon be in danger of
growing fat. He came to read the manuscript of 'The
Sphinx, 3 which Ricketts was to illustrate and bind. The
impression he left on me was of one who had worked much
harder than he pretended to do, whose genius was fanciful
and 'quick to assimilate, rather than original or profound.
There was too, I thought, a genuine sincerity, oddly at
variance with the lightness of his talk, in his voice as he
read the conclusion, dismissing the false tempter :

* Go thou before, and leave me to my crucifix
Whose pallid burden, sick with pain, watches the world with

wearied eyes,
And weeps for every soul that dies, and weeps for every

soul in vain.'

But when discussion started I could find nothing more
polite or apposite to say than that the metre was surely that
of c ln Memoriam 5 ? c No,' said the author, e it is printed
quite differently/ This may account for what followed. It
was summer and the windows were wide open. When

166

1896-1903] THE VALE PRESS

Ricketts bade farewell to Wilde at the door below, I could
not help hearing my name mentioned as a new friend of
theirs, Yes/ said Wilde/ quite nice, but SO dull/ 'No/
replied Ricketts bravely, he is really quite intelligent, but
most horribly overworked.'

On the next occasion Wilde and I happened to leave
together, and I walked with him as far as the corner of Tite
Street, he asking me about my work, and talking pleasant,
unanswerable nonsense all the time. A more instructive
evening was spent in discussing 'Salome.' This was con
ceived as a fantastic jeu d* esprit, in which elements suggested
by Maeterlinck, Flaubert and the bejewelled ritualism of
Gustave Moreau were paraded and parodied. 'What are
the wild beasts that are howling? ' is asked at the outset.
*It s s the Jews discussing their religion* is the reply. Wilde
also stressed the absurdity of 'And I will give you a flower,
Narraboth, a little green flower,' until Ricketts upset his
complacency by saying that some flowers really were green.
Then he talked of the appropriate stage-setting, rich, dim
backgrounds with the Jews all in yellow, lokanaan in white,
Herod in deep blood-red, and Salome herself in pale green
like a snake. On another evening he brought round
Beardsley's newly completed drawings. Ricketts was en
thusiastic about their accomplishment, praising the more
generously perhaps because he would like to have illustrated
the play himself.

He certainly understood Wilde's intentions far better than
Beardsley, whose Salome is no idolized, wilful princess in a
remote Oriental palace, but a jaded Cyprian apache from a
music-hall promenade. The choice of Beardsley was un
lucky, too, for Wilde himself. Beardsley's art was already so
generally associated in the Victorian mind with ideas of a
veiled priapism, that even his most innocent designs were
searched for some sinister meaning. Salome * thus obtained
an undeserved repute for hidden depravities, which did the
author no good when times of trouble came, while for the
hieratic atmosphere which should have invested its presenta-

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

tion on the stage, there was substituted a Grand Guignol
animalism. Beardsley himself I met but once, and then his
clear disdain for my humble self displeased me less than his
affected and casual attitude towards Ricketts. But there
could be no denying his genius as a draughtsman. His
illustrations to 'The Rape of the Lock' still seem to me
incomparable.

The last appearance of Wilde at The Vale which I
remember was also the most brilliant. Walter Sickert was
there, boyish, clean-shaven, aureoled with a mass of blond
hair, playing with a crinolined doll and flashing out now
and then with some lively repartee; Steer sat by me in
monumental silence; w r hile Ricketts, perched on the edge
of the table, engaged Wilde in a long verbal combat. So
swiftly came parry and riposte, that my slow brain could only
follow the tongue-play several sentences behind, and cannot
remember a word of what passed, except ' Oh ! nonsense,
Oscar ! ' from Ricketts, although it lives in memory as the
most dazzling dialogue which I was ever privileged to hear.

Success as a playwright soon left Wilde little time for The
Vale. I saw him no more, but laughed with all London at
his comedies, and at the parody of his talk (too slow, solemn
and stilted) in 'The Green Carnation.' Then came the
amazing sequels, the postcard, the libel action and the trial ;
a nightmare for which nothing had prepared us. Much of
the evidence, no doubt, was dubious, but Wilde was ill-
advised in bringing into Court a type of case which our
conventions (with at least as much sense as hypocrisy) prefer
to settle quietly in another fashion. The very cleverness of
his repartees to Carson aggravated the error by appearing
to defend it. In the light of after years I am inclined to
think the truth was somewhat as follows. All Wilde's earlier
plots, from 'The Fisherman and his Soul' to 'The Picture
of Dorian Gray' and 'The Sphinx/ are concerned with the
same thesis : the temptations of the world and the flesh,
balanced against the inevitable corruption and death of the
soul that gives way to them. Had the author played so long

168

1896-1903] THE VALE PRESS

in imagination on the brink of dangerous experiences that,
when success and good living had sapped his self-control, he
yielded to curiosity, and stepped at last over the edge, as
many have done before with less catastrophic results? It
may be so. My memory remains that of a kindly and most
brilliant man, who did and said nothing whatever which
could give offence to the least in his company.

Eicketts and Shannon meanwhile were making two essays
in book-production. 'Daphnis and Chloe/ the earlier of
the two, was deliberately begun under a strong influence
from the 'Hypnerotomachia.' In the later portions of the
book the designs become more personal; that representing
Venus and AncMses is a pattern of singular beauty. The
Wedding Feast ofDaphnis and Chios has the additional interest
of containing a portrait-group. On the extreme right the
artists are shown, Ricketts, Shannon, Sturge Moore, Lucien
Pissarro, Reginald Savage ; the figure standing behind them
is Mr. Riley, and on the opposite side of the table to the
artists (the opposition was deliberate) sits an unfamiliar
Holmes. As Ricketts sat at work among us one evening,
some remark made him rock with laughter, and I heard him
say, e Oh damn! I've run the graver through Holmes's
moustache. It must come out. 3 And out it came. In
'Hero and Leander * the Venetian influence upon the design
has vanished; the border to the title-page exhibiting the
blend of rhythmic involution with lively spirit which was to
characterize all Ricketts's future work of the same kind. The
exquisite, abstract beauty of the vellum binding is no less
prophetic.

In 1894 ^ e ^tists moved from The Vale to 31 Beaufort
Street, where the number of their \isitors increased. Lucien
Pissarro (the gentlest surely of professed Anarchists) delighted
them alike by Ms wood-engravings and his engaging talk.
Shannon had done a pastel in the hatched manner of
Besnard. * How peautifui ! It is joost like voolvarks ' was
the alleged comment. And to me, ' Your work will always be
interesting because it is sincere; but ze artist is borrn an

169

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

artist.' Fortunately I had no illusions on that subject.
Pissarro's father Camille, the famous Impressionist, a noble
patriarchal figure, and Alphonse Legros, were the chief
representatives of the older generation ; Conder, to me at
least, the most curiously attractive of the juniors.

For nearly an hour on one occasion, he held me with a
talk on the technique of painting on leather, detailed with a
dreamy charm which rendered every moment enchanting,
although leather-painting was none of my business. He laid
particular stress on the need for probity in the art, for the use
of the most permanent materials, speaking with such appar
ent conviction that I was completely hypnotized, and could
not believe for years that he himself was utterly unscrupulous
in his own methods. It is something to have seen the superb
early products of that genius, before the pigments had faded
to mere dull stains, and the material beneath them had
rotted away. No succeeding generation will understand our
admiration for the exquisite symphonies In colour which
Conder produced during the middle 'nineties. Their fame
was written in aniline dye, and his subsequent work in more
solid materials is but a tragic parody of their enchanting,
their audacious refinement.

While D. S. MacColl, Roger Fry, Max Beerbohm and
others, including Leonard Smithers, in more than one sense
the most curious of publishers, with his languid h-less twang
and limp wet fingers, paid occasional calls at Beaufort Street,
Will Rothenstein became a visitor both constant and con
spicuous. His experiences in Paris and at Oxford, his
acquaintance with almost all the well-known figures of the
time, his ready tongue, his clever paintings and lithographs,
combined unexpectedly with something of the lively, irre
sponsible schoolboy. Only now and then did these light-
hearted moods reveal a trace of the self-critical spirit which
was to dominate his work in after years. With him some
times came his fiancee, pretty, smiling, fair-haired Alice
Kingsley, or a sturdy genial friend in a dinner-jacket,
W. Llewellyn Hacon.

170

CONDER, RICKETTS, HACON AND SHANNON

Photographed at the Vale, 1893

RICKETTS TAKEN FOR A WALK BY SAVAGE

AND SHANNON
Drawn by Shannon, 1892

1896-1903] THE VALE PRESS

Of an old East Anglian family, the son of a successful
barrister, Hacon had passed through Beaumont, New Inn
Hall and Balliol, and had played polo for the University
before his career at Oxford came to an end. A tour on the
Continent with a tutor resulted in enlistment as a private in
an Austrian cavalry regiment, with which he served through
one winter in a mountain depot. Redeemed in due course
by his family, he practised for a time at the bar, but his
interest in art, letters and life, coupled with his skill
at games (he was a scratch golfer) y soon diverted his
activities. He was admirable company, being as ready
to defend the mysteries of Roman Catholic doctrine as to
describe duelling with the sabre, and had taken the house
in The Vale when Ricketts and Shannon left it. His
wife, a Miss Bradshaw, was much admired by all the
artistic colony of the day for her beauty and good nature.
Rothenstein, having recorded her attractiveness in an admir
able drawing, now enlisted Hacon's sympathy for an idea
which Ricketts had long cherished, of setting up as a printer
and publisher with type and decorations of his own
designing.

The two previous books which Ricketts and Shannon had
produced,, and which had been issued by Elkin Matthews
and John Lane, were printed in commercial founts, and
these, though the best available, did not fulfil Ricketts's
exacting ideal. The true c Vale Press 3 books were to be of
his own design from cover to cover. Hacon generously
agreed to contribute 1000 to the scheme, with some vague
understanding as to a half-share in the profits, and the year
1895 was devoted to preparing type, woodcut initials and
blocks. A little shop was taken in Warwick Street, an
obscure offshoot of Regent Street, which disappeared with
the rebuilding of the Quadrant: Shannon painted a charm
ing signboard of The Dial 3 to hang over die door, and the
place was opened in the spring of 1896 with Mr. E. Le
Breton Martin as manager. In the summer Martin found
more remunerative work on a big daily paper and, as

171

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

related elsewhere, I offered to fill the gap for the time being,
having indeed no other employment.

The Bibliography of the Vale Press issued by Ricketts in
1904 renders it unnecessary to discuss the books in detail,
especially since my primary concern was with the commer
cial side of the venture. Concern is no inappropriate word.
When I first came to Warwick Street, and studied the
accounts with Macgregor, the pleasant, efficient office-boy,
the result alarmed me. The original 1000 had all been
spent, and I had to get another 50 forthwith from Hacon,
merely to keep things going. Ricketts had attempted to sell
his books in person to friendly booksellers who, after exas
perating him by their criticisms, had extracted such dis
counts from his helplessness as no professional publisher
could afford. I was no trained traveller myself, but there
was nothing for it but to make a round of the London shops,
and reduce their allowance to a reasonable and uniform
rate. Although a year or more passed before I could take
a new book into a shop door without a preliminary stroll
outside to summon up the courage to enter, the booksellers,
for the most part, soon became friends, who actually
appeared glad to see me, especially when the book I brought
was sure to go Out of Print ' at once. I was greatly helped
by the confidence of my chiefs, being allowed, for the first
time, an absolutely free hand in finance and the details of
negotiation; so much so that once when Ricketts, in my
absence, wished to draw some money from Barclays, the
Bank hesitated about cashing his cheque. They had seen
no signature but mine.

In spite of bright green paint and Shannon's signboard, the
shop at Warwick Street remained rather a dismal little hole,
though lighted occasionally by visits from Whistler, Mrs.
Morris, still stately and sibylline in a superb old age, and
many other well-known personages, including the present
Chancellor of the Exchequer. Whistler wished us to become
agents for his pictures and prints, but Ricketts managed to
evade the proposal, fearing that any business contact between

172

1896-1903] THE VALE PRESS

WMstler and myself would result in murder. We were
always a little embarrassed by the unwashing personality of
our landlord, a Jew tailor, and his rather formidable wife, as
well as by lodgers of another ancient profession on the upper
floors. When our tenancy expired in 1899, I was thankful
to find quarters at 17 Craven Street, Strand, less accessible
perhaps to great personages, but certainly so to minor
irritants.

About the same time a fire at the Ballantyne Press
destroyed, inter alia, the woodcut initials and engraved
decorations upon which Ricketts had spent five busy years.
The loss was irreparable, and set a limit to what the Vale
Press could expect to do in the future. We were insured for
500. After studying the policy, I calculated the loss in
two ways, one based on the actual cost of the things de
stroyed, the other on the cost of replacement. Both came
to within 25 of the insurance total, and in approaching the
Fire Office I deemed it prudent to produce the former, as
being slightly the smaller of the two. It seemed a good
omen that the clerk summoned from a high stool to usher
me into the managerial sanctum was none other than B. 5
who twenty-one years earlier held third place among our
Canterbury bullies. When the manager had inspected my
estimate, he remarked that cost of replacement would be
preferable as a basis for payment. But on my promptly
producing the second detailed schedule, he decided to give
me a cheque for the first amount, adding grimly that if we
wished to renew the insurance he would be glad if we would
approach some other office.

The issue of the Vale Shakespeare entailed a contract with
John Lane for an American edition. Lane, then and ever
after, was particularly kind to me, but the authors and
artists whose work he accepted or commissioned were
emphatic as to his skill in driving a bargain* I spent a whole
night accordingly in calculating costs, this way and that,
and reducing the results to a shirt-cuff formula, before
braving Lane's lunch and generous Burgundy at the Reform

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

Club. But when I sank replete into a soft arm-chair in the
smoking-room, and listened drowsily to his proposals, I
discovered to my dismay that I could not read my faint
pencil summary. One figure, a 7, alone was legible. Stick
ing firmly to that, as a drowning man to a raft, I evaded all
arguments, blandishments, protests, and staggered through
somehow to what proved a most satisfactory contract.

The Vale Shakespeare, by the way, led to the single
disagreement I had with my chiefs. Its issue involved so
much extra work that I asked for an additional office-boy.
Ricketts, usually generous almost to a fault, on this occa
sion, as on one other connected with payments to an editor,
proved inexplicably blind. On the previous occasion I had
succeeded in convincing him; now I failed. He could see
no necessity for another los. a week. Morelli, my assistant,
was a capable fellow: we could easily do the extra work
between us. The refusal of this trifling convenience made
me lose my temper so completely that I gave him notice
to leave. The conference which followed showed that he
and Hacon had never realized, when taking the cheques
which I sent them, how considerable their financial success
had been, and that recently, by making two alterations in
their programme, I had brought them an additional profit
of 2000. When they knew the position, they promptly
granted my request, and in addition increased my salary to
200. Their venture had indeed proved profitable. When
the accounts at the end of seven years were finally audited,
it was found that the original capital had been returned to
them more than eight times over, and that the goodwill of
the business might fairly be valued at some 3500 in
addition. This further profit they decided to forgo.
Having fulfilled their purpose, the type and matrices should
be destroyed, and the Vale Press books remain unique.

Unique the books still appear to me in some respects. It
is a mistake to regard them as imitations of the Kelmscott
Press. The resemblances are few and, with the exception
of the slightly archaic heaviness of the Vale fount, quite

1896-1903] THE VALE PRESS

unimportant. Ricketts himself has defined their nature and
purpose in his own writings, but when attention returns once
more to the revival of Printing at the end of the nineteenth
century, men will discover that in one respect he stands
alone, namely as a designer of woodcut borders. These
decorations to his books based upon the wild bryony, the
hop, the honeysuckle, the rose, the violet and the vine
(especially on the larger scale of his 'Sir Thomas Browne '),
have a sparkling colour and a natural grace no less personal
to Ricketts than the classical dignity of the designs which
introduce the Comedies and Tragedies of Shakespeare, or
the plays of the two charming ladies who gained a well-
merited poetic recognition as e Michael Field/ and lost it
when the critics learned their sex and plurality. The * Avon *
fount of the Shakespeare, too, is one of the most handsome
and readable of modern types; it is a pity that it could not
be excepted from the general destruction. Only in the
coloured papers for his bindings must Ricketts admit an
equal, a superior perhaps, in Lucien Pissaxro, whose Eragny
Press books have a freshness and daintiness of dress which
render them a joy to the eye.

Ricketts would like to have completed the list of his
favourite books with an edition of Swinburne's "Poems and
Ballads. 3 But his application to the poet was refused, 'I
am sorry to say that I should not wish and could not allow
supposing my publishers to make no objection any of the
three volumes of my "Poems and Ballads '* to be separately
reissued in this form. 5

Besides attending to the accounts, to the printers, and to
the booksellers, I read all the proofs, and edited several
texts. Over the Shakespeare proofs I got into hot water
once or twice with the patient editor Sturge Moore; over
a little volume of Shelley's Lyrics I did still worse, letting
one or two ludicrous misprints go through from over
confident familiarity. On the other hand, I believe my
text of Apuleius, s De Cupidinis et Psyches Amoribus ' to be
accurate, and to contain one masterly emendation of the

175

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

current reading. Here the man's African Latinity com
pelled attention to every letter. Yet the book did not go
to press without one alarm. Hacon, who received the proofs
in Scotland, wired to me to stop its issue. It appeared that
he had by him only some modernized French edition, and
until I was able to convince him that I had the better
authority he thought my text quite insane.

During the season, I hunted through the sale-rooms every
week ; bidding, as occasion required, either for Ricketts and
Shannon or for myself. To work under their critical eyes
was in itself an education, and I was promoted to a con
siderable degree of independence after a certain sale at
Sotheby's, where I deliberately passed the Chinese painting
I was commissioned to buy for them in favour of another
which happily proved a success. A salary of 100 a year
does not admit of extensive collecting, so that if an acquaint
ance happened to want anything I had picked up, I was
not above passing it on at a modest profit. For my friend
T. B. Lews of Blackburn I made several purchases ; for
myself I retained a few small specimens of Wilson, Constable
and other painters whom I wished to study.

As a test of human nature the sport of collecting is
notorious. One of our older rivals, well-to-do, learned, and
so refined that in Hacon's phrase *his father should have
been a pork-butcher, 3 was famed for his meanness in small
matters. One day he pressed me for my opinion upon a
vivid little Constable sketch which I wanted to get and to
study. As he had already abused my confidence once, I
asked if he really wanted it for his own collection. He
assured me that he did : whereupon I told him how highly
I thought of it, and stood aside in his favour. Three days
later it was shown to me at Carfax. Our friend, having
bought it at the sale for three and a half guineas, had taken
it straight round to Carfax and sold it to them for fifteen
guineas on the strength of my guarantee. Anger made me revert
to schoolboy methods. I told the culprit plainly that if
he ever did anything of the kind again I should kick him,

1896-1903] THE VALE PRESS

and kick him very hard. To Ms credit, let it be said, he
was not only cured, but bore me no grudge*

Ricketts, though no less eager to acquire fine things,

behaved differently. Once, at Christie's, I was so struck
by the beauty of a view of Aquae Albulae, attributed to
Wilson, that I left a commission for it to the limit of my
funds, some 25. An hour later Ricketts appeared at
Warwick Street, to say that he and Shannon had admired
the picture, but finding by inquiry at Christie's that I had
put so generous a price upon it, they had decided not to
bid against me. Eventually I got the picture, and had just
carried it back to Warwick Street when in walked Roger
Fry. * Confound you/ said he, when he saw it, e l left a bid
for that, but never thought it would fetch so much.' And
now Colonel Grant, and most other people too, have decided
that the object of this three-cornered competition is not by
Wilson at all, but by J. R. Cozens.

Though we acquired much practical knowledge we made
no sensational finds. The sale-rooms were too carefully
watched. Once at Foster's, in a portfolio of worthless modem
prints, I came across a superb signed drawing by Hans
Baldung, jammed between an engraving and its mount. I
replaced it in its humble cache, and was commissioned by
Ricketts to go up to 30 for the lot. The bidding started
at ss. 6d., and rose slowly to 155. Then came a pause, but,
before I could bid a further shilling, the contest recom
menced. When the lot had risen to four pounds, the dealers
round the table started sifting the rubbish, print by print.
As the Baldung slipped from its hiding-place there was a
roar of laughter, and the main combatants soon were re
vealed as old Sir Charles Robinson, flicking a catalogue from
a far comer, and my friend Mayer of Colnaghi's, nodding
almost imperceptibly, just behind my back. The drawing
fetched between 50 and 60. These two famous collectors
must each have seen it, and must each have replaced it in
obscurity, hoping, just as I did, that it would remain obscure.

The man who failed to develop in such an environment

177

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

would be a dullard indeed. To myself, fettered by false
notions about social respectability, and blinkered by a con
ventional public-school education, those seven years at the
Vale Press were years of uninterrupted spiritual and visual
deliverance. Ricketts 3 though he laughed at my obvious
limitations (he himself was of the Henri III period ; Shannon
was a Venetian of the Giorgione-Titian time; I was but a
seventeenth-century Dutchman), always encouraged me by
prophesying worldly success. In quite early days at The Vale
I remember him saying, 'My dear boy, don't you worry!
Some day it wiU be Sir Charles Shannon and Sir Charles
Holmes: but it will always be Charles Ricketts.' And in
1902, when criticizing some article of mine, he writes,
'Millais is rather too roughly handled for the Tait Gallery
or N.G., and knighthoods, baronetcies and art peerages,
remember the word "perhaps," the fiction "to some/' the
useful roar of the sucking dove usually heard in this land.'
Such consolatory chaff I was, no doubt, the more ready to
swallow, since my former family and commercial idols had
proved to be rather like the image in Nebuchadnezzar's
dream.

In the matter of reading, my horizon had been widened
immensely by introduction to the literature of modern
France ; in practical aesthetics the influence of Ricketts was
more potent still. Before I knew him my judgments had
been rough and ready, as well as strongly biassed by common
place handbooks. His refinement of eye and taste, his
complete independence, did much to correct my native
crudities, compelling much closer attention to small things,
a weighing of spiritual and technical qualities in a nicer
balance than any I had previously used. Gustave Moreau,
I think, was the only artist for whom I could not share his
admiration ; though there were several, principally English,
for whom I could not share his dislike.

Since their private ambitions involved an intensive study
of the technique of oil-painting, Ricketts and Shannon
naturally employed this technical knowledge when criticizing

178

1896-1903] THE VALE PRESS

pictures, and infected me with the same interest. By talking
over with them the condition, pigments and handling of
works seen in galleries and sale-rooms, I gained in the course
of a few years a foundation of practical experience which was
afterwards to prove most helpful. Though there were dread
ful gaps in my mental equipment, notably as a linguist, I
was found to possess an instinctive visual memory for the
substance and handling of any picture which I had looked
at with attention, so that comparison with other pictures was
made easy, and discussion, even with well-equipped authori
ties, could be more or less confident. Unluckily this facility
did not extend to recalling the composition of a painting.
There any intelligent amateur still has me at a disadvantage.
I cannot illustrate Ricketts*s personality at this time better
than by quoting a few extracts from postcards describing his
first impressions of Italy, which I had just previously visited
with my friend Cripps.

VENICE, April 30, 1899.

I loathed Milan, all the vulgarity of a modern town and
none of the seriousness. The Duomo rivals the Albert Memorial,
and looks like an American organ in sugar. I hated P. Veronese,
and loathed Tintoretto's livid bosh : so far I think T. the most
beastly artist in the world.

We arrived at Venice in a charming silver evening and were
enchanted and surprised, even Canaletto is too spotty. The
Doge's Palace looked like bleached coral, and S. Mark's like
bleached roman glass. So far we have only seen the Doge's
Palace and I have never seen anything so ghastly in the way of
decorative paintings. The Battle of Lepanto by P. V. with the
woman in silver satin is good, but his big ceiling and Tintoretto
simply appalled me. I shall live in the Gondolas if Venetian
painting is like that. I hope Ballantyne and W.S. (Warwick Street)
have both burnt down and that we may foreclose on insurances.

VENICE, May 5th, 1899.

Our loathing for Tintoret is subsiding (C. H. S. says NO). I
think we have got hardened. In the Accademia the S. Mark
is good ordinary colour, his other pictures frightful. I dislike
Veronese but on a different plane. Bellini though stands any
light and condition; his masterpiece at the Frari should be

179

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

hung in Paradise. I think you were tired in Venice, and when
the weather darkens even I wish to get back home. I fear that
you have no heart; you were unkind to Carpaccio he fascinates
us, though a coarse painter, very unequal, and fearfully patched,
damaged and repainted. The dear little dark church of S.
Georgio where he is only dirty has become a sort of home for us.
The gondolas drive me mad. Don't tell anyone but I have
discovered a very important portrait by Lotto in the Accademia,
where it is skyed and given to Cariana. I was absolutely staggered
on seeing the Raphael sketch-book to find that barring some
washes added later each and every drawing was by Raphael and
not by Perugino Pinturicchio Raphael etc. The hands, the feet,
the ears, the face traits are aU, like the quality of the pen-stroke,
identical in each. 3 Yours, C. S. R.

If you don't write to me I shall bring you a set of Tintoret.

VENICE, May 15, 1899.

My dear boy, I shall bring you back a collection of Veronese,
if the Crucifixion of the Accademia is a picture you like. I
imagine you mean the S. Rocco picture. I can't believe that
you who wash and often speak the truth could possibly like the
Accademia picture. It looks like guts. I had rather come round
to Tinto in a cowardly sort of way, having given up the smallest
affectation of cleanliness. . . . We have quite fallen in love with
a dear old buggins we meet here in the smoking-room every
evening ; he is the author of Steele's book on Penelope (i.e. the
book he wanted us to read). He is fanatic of the primitives and
hates Tinto. S. says this word is too long. I hope you did not
miss the late Bellini at S. Jovanni Crisostomo? S. thinks it
almost the best picture in Venice. I am thinking of asking B. 2
to let me write him a book on Carpaccio. I tell you this to
prevent Crips from having the job. I am sure he liked Carpaccio
better than you did. I hope you have been mixing paints for
M. F. and that T. did not get his picture. Yours respectfully,

C. S. R.

MILANO, CHIASSO, May 23, 1899.

We scamped Verona, and funked Brescia to escape Civico
museums, and are howling for the Louvre and its well-preserved
pictures. I think Venice should be done in 3 or 4 days, the rest

1 This was, and is, my own conviction.

2 The B., presumably, stands for Samuel Butler. M. F., of course, is Michael
Field, for whom I was doing some dog-caricatures. T.'s picture I have for
gotten.

1 80

1896-1903] THE VALE PRESS

is vexation. Padua was a revelation, that is Mantegna was as
good as he should be, Giotto much better than I imagined, he

is one of the great impressions I have received in my fife. The
Chapel of S. Giorgio a revelation also. We had ourselves locked

in for i hour each day, just as if we were Mr. Ruskin. Verona
is worth seeing. Ask Bynion if the little Pisanello Madonna in
Civico is known, I consider it one of the most representative

pictures I have seen in Italy; my local photograph is marked
Zaevio, and as the Morelli crew have done Verona, this may

be their funny little way. Padua contains a magnificent Anto-
nello da Messina unmentioned by Baedeker Behrenson. I find
my Piero of the Poldi is called Fra Carnevale, a supposed pupil

of his, who is known now never to have existed. It is curious
how many points in attribution in London have become simplified
by the utter collapse of the squirts to whom good pictures are
attributed. I agree with you the Bonifazios are I think the
first must have had as many uncles as you, only they all painted?

It is amusing to contrast these judgments with those of a
non-painter, my friend Glutton-Brock, who visited Venice
four years later. The future art critic of the 'Times 3
writes :

VENICE, 27 March 1903.

I have seen a lot of pictures and must have a long talk with
you when I get back. I suppose I am not quite well balanced
enough yet to appreciate pictures properly at present, but my
opinions are rather different from what I expected. I can't
stand Titian here at aH, especially the Assumption, a most
common machine, I think (' The Assunta,* says Ricketts s
* knocked us fiat with admiration *), always excepting the
Deposition, that last picture of his in the Academy, which is
one of the two or three greatest pictures I have ever seen
(Ricketts does not mention it!). Tintoret much finer than I
expected, surely all round the most wonderful of all painters,
especially in colour, at his best, Cain and Abel, Miracle of S.
Mark, Crucifixion in the Academy, . . . John Bellini a little
disappointing, rather timid and narrow, and perhaps a little
stupid. Carpaccio hardly a serious painter except in little bits,
no idea of making a picture.

My own first impressions are recorded in the next

chapter.

181

CHAPTER XI
ROCHE'S

(1896-1903)

New ways of life; financial anxieties; two barrister cousins;
writing for the 'Dome*; the company at Roche's; the
* Athenaeum * ; cases of hubris ; Conder at Dieppe ; visit to
Italy; its effect upon painting; boxing and fishing.

A PROTEST to an Income Tax surveyor reveals receipts for
the year 1896-7 amounting to 63, 43. lod. The 60 pre
sumably represents my salary from the Vale Press: the
balance my earnings from art and literature. On such a
sum it was no good trying to live as I had done hitherto.
Relinquishing top-hat and tail-coat; relinquishing my
panelled rooms in Cowley Street, my attic-studio and my
etching-press, I found quarters at the top of a condemned
house, standing alone in Millbank Street on the spot now
occupied by Rodin's Burghers of Calais. The side- walls were
propped with vast shores of grimy timber ; at the back a
steam-crane on the river-bank made the crazy structure
quiver from morning to night ; an arc-lamp over the crane
sizzled and flared just outside my garret window, rendering
any other light unnecessary. This garret, two unfurnished
rooms below and willing attendance, all for 8s. 6d. a week,
suited my pocket no less exactly than rny habits.

I soon learned to sleep under the glare of the arc-lamp, in
a bed vibrating with the rattle of the crane. When the sun
blazed over the wide prospects of the river in the morning,
I could shift my cheap easel to the room opposite, and take
it back again later. The place was kept clean ; my boiled
egg or bacon breakfast was admirably served; I was in
touch with my friends in Cowley Street, and had done with
the need for keeping up appearances. Dinner remained the

182

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

formidable problem, Kirk's ham-and-beef-shop in the Hay-
market being the nearest thing to a solution. There for
is. 2d., or sometimes is. 4d., the pangs of hunger could be
alleviated ; the monotony of the wholesome fare being some
check upon natural appetite. The Gourmet's restaurant,
behind Leicester Square, was more famous ; but its dinners
a la carte had a way of mounting up to ss. or more, and so
could only be enjoyed by those who were richer than I.

The ever-present menace of liability to my cousin and my
mother seemed to demand the saving of every penny ; yet
once, for a few months, that menace was sensibly diminished.
At Richmond my mother had shown some kindness to the
wife and daughters of a mining prospector in New Zealand.
Lighting at last upon a seven-foot lode of auriferous quartz,
he sent the news to his wife, who in gratitude passed it on
to my mother. We put our little all into the mine ; up went
the shares in due course, and only the imbecility of an
acquaintance in the City (why do we assume every City
man to be a financial Solomon?) to whom I entrusted the
business, prevented a sale at a handsome profit. Then the
lode was lost in some volcanic disturbance of the strata,
and could never be rediscovered. My prudent mother just
got clear : I myself, after seeing a profit of several hundred
pounds, was some 50 to the bad, though I gained an
experience which has possibly saved me from worse disaster.

Having cut the last tie connecting me with the ordinary
publishing trade, I felt bound to regulate my position with
my cousin. I had so long regarded him, with good reason,
as an intimate, generous and wholly trustworthy friend, that
I could not comprehend the difference between his original
promise to me, and the terms of its performance when I
wished to enter Nimmo's business. I got him accordingly
to come and see me at Warwick Street, asking him plainly
across the counter whether I had done anything to displease
him. He said 'No/ and seemed surprised at the question.
How then, I went on, was I to understand the discrepancy
between an advance either without interest or at a nominal

183

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

rate, and a proposal equivalent to interest at eight per cent.?
He reddened a little, and replied that he saw no particular
discrepancy. The answer made me laugh. 'We see things
differently/ said 1, shook his hand, and was never afraid of
Mm again. e A comical limb of Mammon ' was the comment
of the one friend to whom I confided the interview.

But the friend was wrong. My cousin still retained the
element of greatness which seven years before had made me
his devoted servant and admirer. A few months later he
wrote to me to say that he was altering his will ; that I had
been named as one of his executors, but, since there was now
no business to be disposed of, executors were no longer
needed. Perhaps 1000 now would be of more service to
me than a larger legacy in the future? I had no false pride
about accepting a gift which reinstated an old friend,
reduced my liabilities to an amount I could contemplate
without panic, and so cured me of my 'poor relation'
complex that I could thenceforth treat comments upon that
topic as they deserved. All the same, as one tramped home
sometimes on a wet evening, still hungry, and constantly
splashed by the carriages of the prosperous, it was easy to
pardon and experience the resentment of a Communist.

Another victim of family pleasantries often shared our
scanty dinners. My cousin D. was the unpaid devil of a
well-known K.C., but Ms private means were running out,
and, without further backing, he would soon have to give
up the bar. Once when he earned eight guineas by writing
two chapters of another man's book (I got a sovereign myself
for writing the preface), D. confessed that the amount was
more than he had earned in two years in the Temple. At
this critical stage in Ms fortunes he had the Barmecidal
entertainment of dining with his uncle, and helping him
afterwards to settle up his affairs before he started on a
tour round the world. The settlement included the posting
to various charities of sfeven cheques of 1000 apiece by
the impecunious nephew, who was compelled in due course
to abandon the English bar when Ms last sMlling had gone.

184

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

D. s s exceptional knowledge of law, however, did me one
signal service. In exchanging our personal and family
difficulties he learned of my financial trouble, probed it
minutely in his lodgings one evening, and at the end of
three hours delivered a judgment contrary to that of my
legal advisers. This saved me from a heavy additional
liability.

In the end, I am glad to say, D. completely disappointed
the affectionate expectations of the family. A junior uncle
enabled him to go abroad, and thereby finally to obtain a
minor judicial post, in a provincial town on another con
tinent. There he duly performed his humble duties, until
one of his judgments was challenged and reversed by the
High Court of the country. D., never addicted to com
promise, threw caution to the winds, protested, and sent in
a reasoned defence of his own legal accuracy, quoting the
appropriate acts and authorities. Receiving no reply, he
concluded that he had cut his own throat, and resigned him
self to permanent oblivion. A year or so later he was
abruptly summoned to headquarters. A judgeship in an
important court had become vacant. He was not only
selected for the post, which he has held ever since with
distinction, but was actually supported in his candidature
by those whom he had criticized, against the Home authori
ties, who would naturally have liked to appoint a man of
their own to such a desirable place.

The academic successes of another barrister cousin, Walter
Clay, had so generally been held up for my emulation in
youth, that I came to regard Ms name with loathing. But
the moment I met him in person at Trinity, where he was
reading for a Fellowship, dislike changed to affection. At
the bar his learning, combined with immense energy and
good humour, carried him rapidly forward: his strong
political instincts (he was an Asquithian Liberal) marked
him out early as a coming Parliamentary figure. At his
mother's house at Watford I could dispute with his clever
Cambridge friends, and meet his uncle Sir John Gorst, most

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

outspoken and independent of ministers, who did not con
ceal his satisfaction at escaping Gladstone's funeral by riding
out on a push-bike for tea with his sister. Clay's width of
interests, covering pictures, architecture, literature, philo
sophy and mountaineering, coupled with a searching com
bative humour, made him the very best of company. His
desire to test every new theory by practical experience once
led to a laughable result. As we were slogging along a very-
dirty road near Watford, I happened to tell him how I had
read of a way of defeating a man who had got your head
'into Chancery. 3 In a second, without warning (he was
over six feet high and broadly built), he had my head down
in Ms iron grip. I tried the book-learned trick; and lo!
Clay collapsed abruptly into the mud at my side, remarking,
'Well! That seems quite satisfactory.* A year or two
later all the high hopes we had of him came to an end,
for he lost his life, with four other climbers, on the Gran
Paradiso.

My first efforts at increasing a scanty income were directed
at the 'Westminster Gazette. 5 That enterprising, if politic
ally misguided, journal would accept outside contributions ;
my friend Cripps once received a guinea, I believe, for quite
a short poem. 1 I could not rise to more than paragraphs of
current art gossip, which I provided, until the receipt of a
postal order for is. iod., ' in payment for one month's contri
butions/ taught me that I was no journalist. My next experi
ment had better luck. Our little company at Kirk's was
munching its boiled beef one evening, when in came Binyon
with great news, A pastry-cook in Soho had started a first-
rate table- d'hote dinner for eighteen pence, with a twopenny
tip besides for the waiter. The others were for immediate
migration. I hesitated. The price was too high for my
finances. To prove his case, Binyon offered to stand me a
dinner. I still hesitated. Then he said, c You know some
thing about Hiroshige. Write an article about him for the

1 Since published, with other poems, in *The Magic Grape* (London:
G. Bell; 1924).

186

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

"Dome" and make two guineas. That will last yon there
for months/ So I came to Roche's and to writing.

The 'Dome/ a new monthly, was edited and mostly
written, under various pseudonyms, by that versatile jour
nalist E. J. Oldmeadow, to whom Binyon, from his know
ledge of art and letters, was a welcome adjutant. As I had
never before composed an article, that essay on Hiroshige
was solemnly written and rewritten five times over before I
ventured to send in the MS. Then a miraculous chance
intervened. I had signed the article c Charles Holmes, 5 and
the name was mistaken by an influential reviewer for that of
Mr. Charles Holme, well known as a prominent member of
the Japan Society, and as editor-proprietor of the 'Studio/
In consequence, when the little article appeared in the third
number of the 'Dome ' on Michaelmas Day 1897, ** received
a column of praise in the Sphere, 3 and derivative notices
elsewhere, which encouraged Oldmeadow to give me further
employment. I could thenceforth join without apprehension
the little company which gathered at Roche's.

Roche was a charming fellow and a first-class chef, his
gateaux mocha his masterpieces, his smiling wife an adroit
manager. They thoroughly understood the art of making
their clients comfortable. * I have a little sea-trout to-night, 3
Roche would whisper. c It is not on the menu. 3 The eighteen-
penny dinner of hors-d'oeuvres, soup, fish or eggs, entree or
joint, sweet or cheese might be thus sensibly enriched for the
habitual guest, and, alone among restaurants of its kind,
each table was furnished with jugs of water, so that no one,
unless he chose, need go to the expense of sending out for
beer, or for LorioFs wines. The visible part of the establish
ment in Old Compton Street consisted in those days of a
pastry-cook's window, a pay-desk, three small tables, a round
table and a long table. The small tables were for couples
and family parties ; the round table was left to those who,
like Max Beerbohm, might wish to be apart with friends;
the long table was the rendezvous for the rest of us, so much
so that the presence of any stranger, particularly near the

187

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

head of it, was felt to be an intrusion. Indeed the table
quickly came to be an informal club, to which admission
could be gained only by personal introduction, or by discreet
waiting * on approval 3 below the salt.

The genial R. A. Streatfeild of the British Museum,
musical critic of the 'Daily Graphic/ was quickly marked
out as the social centre and arbiter of our little company.
Binyon was its most definite man of letters, though Richard
Steele, the Baconian, Oswald Barron, wit and antiquary,
Edgar Jepson the novelist, Mr. and Mrs. Voynich, and at
least half the other members, had literary work or connexions.
I particularly recall one evening when Binyon brought in a
tall, bronzed young man in blue serge, with a grave quiet
manner, whom he introduced to us as John Masefield the
sailor-poet. Another notable figure was W. B. Thomas, the
handsome editor of the e Vegetarian * but no bigot in his own
dietary, whom I recognized, on his appearance, as having
bowled me first ball on the Christ Church ground at Oxford.
He had a nasty trick of flighting a slowish ball which would,
I am sure, have won him distinction as a cricketer, if his
athletic prowess in other fields had allowed him the time.
Laurence Weaver, then a bright-eyed young Irvingite agent
for patent window-frames; Arthur Cochrane, the Herald,
then a wine-merchant and playwright; Randall Davies,
master of the Limerick and secretary to the millionaire
Pulitzer; J. D. Hoare, musical critic of the 'Globe*; tall
and courtly 'Count' Morgan; merry Cloudesley Brereton;
Dr. Fowler the zoologist; 'The Turtle-man, 3 scholar and
cricketer; 'The Cobra-man/ master of jiu-jitsu; JaUand,
the portly manager to Marie Tempest ; Arthur Lowry and
George Calderon, with Cripps, Vaux, Dobson and other
personal friends, were also more or less constant diners.
Gay Cecil Brewer and quiet Dunbar Smith introduced us to
the real truth about architectural c competitions ' ; Sydney
Greenslade aired his passion for Martin-ware. Wyndham
Lewis, with his romantic face, his crumpled, gloomy sonnets
and fine Slade-School drawings, gave a touch of youthful

188

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

force and purpose to a general scheme of light-hearted

middle-age. Miss May Morris, Ernest Thesiger, the Strangs,
and the Holroyds came fairly often; other artists less fre
quently, Constance Collier was a familiar spectacle, though
not of our company; Esterhazy, of Dreyfus fame, and
Whistler made experimental visits.

That table at Roche's was an ideal place over which to
swop experiences, and pick up any little job that might be
vacant, or be invented by Binyon, who had always a wonder
ful eye for the needs of a friend. The prey, or the parasites 3
of impecunious editors and minor publishers, we were no
doubt a commonplace lot compared with the more rakish
and conspicuous personages who frequented 'The Crown 5
and 'The Cafe Royal.* We could not afford such dissipa
tions, being thankful if we could supplement, by occasional
work at night, the small salaries we earned by day in offices
or museums.

Streatfeild and Hoare, in the course of their musical
duties, were able to take me with them to hear Tchaikovsky
and other novelties of the time; sometimes even to the
Opera, though the gallery there was my more common
experience. Thus my education progressed in more ways
than one, but that which I received from Shannon and
Ricketts remained predominant. They impressed upon me
far more than the details of critical theory and practice,
compelling me to think about larger questions, the ideal
management of Museums and Picture-Galleries ; the future
of the art-treasures still remaining in English private collec
tions, and the best means of protecting them against the
enterprise of Germany and against American wealth. In
their foresight upon these matters they were some five years
or more ahead of their time. Hence, when I had to tackle
the problem later, its factors were familiar; its proper
solution more difficult than doubtful.

During these last years of the century, Society, which had
previously been exclusive and stately, threw off the restraints
of Victorianism, took the millionaire to its bosom, and grew

180

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

more and more extravagant. The results quickly became
apparent. The plutocrat might oblige with an occasional
stock-exchange tip, but in return he set a standard of living
which most of his new associates could not afford, and were
too proud or too silly to reject. So one after another the
owners of great estates and private collections found them
selves embarrassed, even before Sir William Harcourt's
Death Duties had brought them face to face with ruin.
The resulting drain of works of art from England at first
attracted little notice : to the authorities of the National
Gallery it appeared to be quite unknown. Home's attacks
on the Gallery were chiefly devoted to criticism of the
Director, Sir Edward Poynter, and his purchases. George
Moore in the 'Speaker' and D. S. MacColl in the 'Spec
tator/ the most vigorous figures in contemporary art-
journalism, were engaged in championing the Impressionists
and young painters like Steer against a Royal Academy
suffering from cerebral sclerosis, Claude Phillips alone,
in the 'Daily Telegraph/ seemed aware of the national
danger, but, having social connexions which he valued,
was too cautious to say in print all that he thought in
private.

Meanwhile I carried my study of Japanese art to the
point of trying to learn the language, and in 1899 published
in * The Artists' Library J (Unicorn Press) a little book on
Hokusai. A move to get me a place in the Oriental Depart
ment at South Kensington followed, but came to nothing.
Our family friend, John Gorst, was too honest. The
'Hokusai/ having met with a success second only to that
of Roger Fry's 'Bellini, 3 was followed by a companion
volume on Constable. To this I devoted an amount of
work disproportionate to its length, visiting Constable's
haunts, and making voluminous notes which soon were
turned to account. The indefatigable Binyon, being asked
by Constable and Co. to write a much larger book on the
artist, with his habitual generosity passed on the chance to
me. Thus, soon after my small book had appeared in 1901,

190

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

I was engaged upon another which occupied me for nearly
two years.

For some time, too, I had been making essays in journal
ism, as art critic for the 4 Realm ' and other weeklies of brief
existence and uncertain finance. At the end of the century
I was offered permanent work on the * Athenaeum* as the
junior colleague of Roger Fry. 4 The kind of thing that
nobody outside a lunatic asylum could read. Golly ! What
a paper ! ' wailed Mr. John Finsbury. Yet in the 'nineties
the 'Athenaeum ' with its gravity, its anonymity and its un
questionable scholarship, was a real power. All publishers,
and on their advertisements the paper chiefly depended,
recognized that a favourable review in the c Athenaeum '
meant success for any new book. F. G. Stephens, the Pre-
Raphaelite, had been its art critic, but his duties had
recently been transferred to Fry, already conspicuous as the
champion of traditional methods and ideals, as opposed to
new importations from France.

Fry confined himself almost entirely to the field of his
own interests, the Old Masters of the Continental Schools.
British Painting in general, and the Moderns (whom Fry-
disliked) fell to my share, so that I seldom lacked material.
Moreover, Fry's fine sense of style set an exacting standard.
All being strictly anonymous, it was essential that there
should be no glaring discrepancies in presentation, and I
was flattered when Miss Fry confessed that she had mistaken
one of my articles for her brother^ writing. Vernon Rendall
made a charming editor, trusting us completely ; Sir Charles
Dilke, the proprietor, entertained the staff occasionally at
dinners in Sloane Street, dinners no less solemn than
elegant. Altogether these occupations, and the two or three
pounds a week by which they increased my income, gradu
ally swept away the self-obsession and fears of failure which
had haunted me since 1890. By the end of the century one
could snap one's fingers at family disapproval.

In narrow lodgings in Barton Street, Westminster, and
more freely in Markham Square, Chelsea, I messed away at

191

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

oil-painting for several years with no apparent success.
Perhaps the sombre tones of Van Goyen and Ruysdael, of
Wilson and J. R. Cozens, reflected my outlook upon life.
Anyhow, I became a dull and rather gloomy little painter,
relying unwisely upon raw umber as a general medium for
fusing more positive colours, in ignorance of that attractive
pigment's habit of eating up anything else that may be
painted into it, especially when both have been freely
tempered with linseed oil. The few relics of that period,
in consequence, are now dark canvases, almost uniformly
brown, with hardly a trace of the brighter colours by which
they had once been animated. All this futile labour may
have taught me something about composition and execu
tion : it did me no other service.

My holiday memories are more cheerful. Roche's, for
example, played a cricket-match against Pinner, which pro
vided a comic illustration of the doctrine of hubris. In the
brake from the station, our champion cricketer (M.C.C. and
all that) began, as unaccountably as unmercifully, to chaff
the most awkward of our recruits on the pretty figure he
would soon be cutting. Cripps and I, having reverence for
the gods, recognized that the scoffer was 'fey. 5 Pinner
started by making runs off the solemn slows of George
Calderon (clad in a wondrous gray undervest instead of a
shirt), until W. B. Thomas and Streatfeild came on to bowl
them out. Roche's team fared more disastrously; Streat
feild alone reaching double figures. The M.C.C. crack was
bowled for duck (fast balls on a village pitch are no respecters
of greatness), but continued his chaff until the pallid victim,
equipped with various borrowed properties, had stumped
out to bat. He proved no unsuspected W. G. but, though he
generally failed to touch the ball, the ball invariably failed
to touch his wicket. Three catches in succession did he
spoon up : all three were missed. Then the gods sent him a
half-volley which he smote till it came banging against the
pavilion. That was too much for the scoffer ; he faded away
into the background. StreatfeiLd's score had been equalled

192

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

and the match almost won, when madness seemed to descend
upon the recruit himself. He rushed out for a supreme slog,
and was duly bowled by a shooter. The gods had sufficiently
vindicated their objection to human pride.

This trivial incident was recalled two years later by certain
preliminaries to the Boer War. Misgiving started with the
casual talk of a Guardsman in a country house : c he had no
intention of roughing it, and was taking out a comfortable
bed. The whole thing would be over in five or six weeks. 3
His ostentatious confidence filled me with forebodings, which
were soon made infinitely more acute by the vainglorious
idiocy of the popular Press. It was sickening to see a cam
paign in which victory could bring us no credit, against a
people whose fighting record we had reason to respect, being
treated with such insane presumption. The news of disaster
which came in week after week at once confirmed my fears
and relieved them a little, owing to its prompt effect upon
the national temper. By admitting our mistakes, by accept
ing our humiliations, we gradually seemed to avert the anger
of the gods and were saved from a second Syracuse. Now
adays I feel that it would be rather unkind of Providence to
punish a whole nation for the sham patriotism of its Press,
and the boasts of a few talkers ; unless taking such follies
too seriously be the one unpardonable sin.

The Diamond Jubilee of 1897 was spent with Cripps in
Dorset, a bonfire on Mdbury Beacon being the climax of the
local dissipations. Remaining by it, after the other revellers
had left and the flames were dying down, we became aware
that the heart of the blaze had been a great can of oil, still
glowing almost white-hot among the piled embers. A frenzy
came upon us. Seizing the largest available brands, we
braved the fire, turned the can over, gradually pushed or
levered it into the open, and thence to the edge of the beacon
hill. Once started on its downward career the glowing
cylinder progressed with a series of most satisfactory leaps
and bounds into the darkness below 3 and we felt we had
finished our Jubilee well, I woke next day with some

193

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

qualms, but inquiry proved that the only victim seemed to
have been a rustic, who was sleeping it off under a gorse
bush, and was frightened almost out of his wits when the
fiery mass came hurtling by.

In the following spring I went to stay with the Hacons
at Dieppe. The day started with a douche, and it fell to my
lot to get Conder, my fellow-guest, out of bed for the
ceremony. A corner of his room was piled nearly three feet
high with empty soda-water bottles. As he stood stripped,
and the cold jet kneaded the muscles of his back, he made
a magnificent figure, very like a graceful edition of the
Choiseul-Gouffier 'Apollo. 3 So well-built indeed was he
that, when we went out together in the morning and he
suggested that we should box at the Casino, I was just a
little nervous that he might prove too strong for me. At the
Casino we drew blank; "but when I casually mentioned our
visit to Hacon, he was horrified, saying c Thank God ! Don't
you realize that if you had really hit him once you would
probably have killed him? He has no inside left.'

Conder's dreamy charm rendered him a fascinating com
panion. Our rambles from one cafe to another brought us
finally to a tiny curiosity shop, where Conder stood by the
window, absorbed in contemplating a scrap of old silver
brocade. 'When I have learned the colour of that, I shall
turn it into a fan' was the explanation. Further talk led
him to ask to see my sketch-book. 'You draw with your
head,' was his comment, 'you would do better if you could
learn to trust to your hand.' I tried the experiment quickly,
but did not continue it, since the results appeared to lose in
substance as much as they gained (and the gain was undeni
able) in artistic effect.

Proceeding to call on the Thaulow family, recently im
mortalized by Jacques Blanche, and imbibing further
liqueurs in the garden, I was introduced to a silent blond-
bearded giant, bigger even than the genial Thaulow
Christian Krogh, the Norwegian painter, a personage of
some standing in his own country, who, the legend went, had

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

killed a man, and so had come abroad for his health. They
all came to dinner with the Hacons In the evening. Conder
was late and, on entering the room, discovered that the mass
of violets in the middle of the table reminded him of a grave.
Seizing them with both hands he scattered them between us
in little swathes and bunches, as effective as one of his own
decorative panels, and then entertained us all for the rest
of the evening in Ms unique Dionysiac fashion, the most
trivial of sayings and doings being redeemed by an inimit
able grace, as if some inspired Pagan divinity were struggling
to break through the frail mortal envelope.

The interval before I returned on the following day was
devoted to golf. Hacon and I, after an early lunch, were to
play the Vice- Consul and some soldier friend. Hacon and
the Vice-Consul lunched so well that the match started as
a comic single, between the soldier and myself. Just as I
began to tire, about half-way round, Hacon recovered his
eye and pulled us through triumphantly, cooling my self-
satisfaction by pointing out the Sussex 5 tossing on her way
to the harbour, and predicting the worst of crossings for me.
All the party came to see me off, including a pale and
draggled Ernest Dowson, upon whom the Vice-Consul had
to turn a blind eye. I did not take the prescription (Conder's)
which Hacon recommended, Get drunk and keep drunk, 5
though the sea and wind became more and more violent;
yet by taking brandy and water after each paroxysm, I found
myself at the end of an hour to be one of the very few on
board who could walk about unconcerned in the welter.

In the autumn I had more golf with the Hacons at
Domoch, and found in the russet and emerald of the Scottish
mountains a splendour I had never seen upon English hills.
But all these pleasant memories were soon eclipsed by a
jcumey to Italy in the spring of 1899. Having neither too
much time nor much money, Cripps and I again prepared
for it with transatlantic method, reading Dante, D'Annunzio
and a Conversation-book, and working out a chart of each
day's programme with a Continental Bradshaw, the plans

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

in Baedeker, and advice from Ricketts, who had not as yet
visited Italy, as to the things we had to see.

Switzerland proved to be clad in chilly clouds, under
which the snow-clad -rocks of Pilatus, the peak of the Mythen,
and the huge mass of the Bristenstock loomed impressive as
we passed them. But when, from the stuffy confinement of
the St. Gothard tunnel, the train suddenly burst into the
glittering snows and afternoon splendour of the Ticino
Valley, our highest hopes were fulfilled. Gliding down past
Biasca and Bellinzona we felt that we were indeed in Turner's
Italy, and when we had trudged ankle-deep in dust to our
hotel in Milan not even the disgusting sweetness of Asti
Spumante could spoil that gorgeous recollection. At
Parma we landed on a Good Friday, to find the Gallery
closed. As we stood in despair before the door, a small
Italian boy, noticing our disappointment, offered to run and
fetch the keeper for us. We could not hope much from his
good offices, but there was nothing else to do but accept
them, since we had already seen the churches. To our sur
prise the boy returned very shortly, bringing the keeper with
him. The Gallery was specially opened for us, and our
delight in Correggio's 'Giorno* (was there ever a more
wonderful piece of painting than S. Catherine's head and
left arm?) was equalled only by our gratitude for the
Italian good-nature which had come so opportunely to our
rescue. It was the first of many small kindnesses with which
we met: the English had not then been superseded in
popular favour by the Germans.

Bologna with its arcades, its leaning towers, its other
architectural surprises, its excellent sculptures and soup,
seemed an ideal Italian city. Florence involved days of real
hard work. Herbert Home very kindly took us in hand,
introducing us to buried, battered frescoes, the only music-
hall, and to the white-washed fiaschetteria Barile, with its
great swinging flasks of first-rate Chianti, and its excellent
cooking, at prices worthy of Roche himself. No wonder
things were cheap ! The wages of a Florentine postman at

196

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

this time were seven lire a week. Among the works of art,
the varied magnificence of Fra Angelico, Botticelli and
Verrocchio was the chief surprise; GHrlandajo, who had
seemed so effective in photography, the chief disappoint
ment. Michelangelo, of course, stood alone. When we
compared notes at the end of a week with my aunt, _ Miss
Holmes, and the PapiUons, who were living on the Lungamo,
we found that on the whole we had seen more of Florence
than its regular winter inhabitants.

A short visit to Siena left one abiding impression. On the
white walls of the little Gallery there, paintings in tempera
lost their accustomed pallor and showed up with unexpected
richness. Nearly thirty years later 1 had an opportunity of
utilizing this impression, when preparing the first room in
the National Gallery to receive our Primitives. Brassy skies
made the buildings of Venice look more like T. B. Hardy
than Canaletto or Turner, but the Vino di Verona was
excellent, and inspired us to queer mutual confidences.
Titian, always excepting the big Pietd, proved an absolute
disappointment; Tintoretto disconcertingly unequal, with
tempting flashes of light and colour, Veronese mostly rather
stodgy, Carpaccio amusing, Bellini always beautiful and, at
S. Giovanni Crisostomo, supreme. Tiepolo too was a most
refreshing novelty among so much that was either over-ripe
or over-cleaned. I mention these impressions, because I
have recorded already those felt about the same time by
Ricketts and by Clutton-Brock.

In our Verona-hotel we found Thaulow. He was paint
ing the famous bridge, and impressed us after dinner by a
discourse on the virtue of simple, absolute sincerity in art.
Returning at midday across the aforesaid bridge, we saw
him on the shingle below, his painting materials still un
packed, while he wrestled with a huge camera. I had
always been puzzled by the accuracy with which he repre
sented reflections in water. The reason was now made
plain ; plainer than his idea of sincerity. When we reached
the church of SS. Nazzaro e Celso, the chapel containing

197

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

the noble paintings by Montagna was filled with a funeral
cortege. To our dismay, the sacristan rushed into the crowd
of mourners, sweeping them this way and that to make a
passage for us to the panels, which were lying on the ground
by the altar. After this disgrace, we were only half-shocked
at Brescia, where a chair was brought so that we might climb
up on to the altar itself, regardless of the worshippers, and
examine Titian's Resurrection.

The high city of Bergamo was invisible under torrents of
rain, but a tiny restaurant close to the Gallery, filled with
friendly shepherds in great blue cloaks, provided cutlets and
such Verona wine that my usual faculty of memorizing
pictures was completely ruined for the day. Almost all that
I remember in those interesting galleries is a little white-
haired Englishman, who engaged me in a critical discussion.
This was rapidly degenerating into a dispute when he was
carried off to safety by a large majestic lady. Later, the time
came for us to sign our names in the visitors' book, and the
previous entry read 'Alfred Austin.'

If I have spoken of this little tour in too much detail, I
must be forgiven; yet the effects, as I look back upon it,
were considerable. In the first place it enabled me to collate
and to modify what I had been learning from photographs
and written criticism (Morelli was now giving place to
Berenson), and by giving me a solid technical foundation for
studying the Giorgione-Titian period, with which artistic
taste was then largely concerned. But the chief service, not
at once apparent, that the sight of Italy rendered, was to
release me gradually from preoccupation with the ideas of
chiaroscuro which had kept me a murky painter. The re
collection of that first long afternoon in the sunlit Ticino
Valley was, I think, more potent than the effect of any
picture or group of pictures ; remaining at the back of the
mind as a vision of transcendent light and colour, which
might, with luck, some day be realized upon canvas.

The period of transition naturally produced some queer
products. I still possess a little painting of A Barn near

198

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

Cobham, which Carfax attempted to sell for me. It caught
Sir Edward Poynter's eye, as he browsed round their estab
lishment with Robbie Ross. Who is that by?' he asked.
Oh! that's by Holmes/ was the answer. Holmes?
Holmes ? * said the Director of the National Gallery. * When
did he die?* Liberation first came in 1900, after Cripps
and I had walked in the brightest of early spring sunshine
down the Itchen Valley to Winchester. That glittering
waterside was all new to me; new also was Winchester
itself. Under Cripps's expert guidance I saw all the details
of College 3 long familiar to me in legend, while St. Cathe
rine's Hill with the river below it made a natural composi
tion which I proceeded to carry out in paint on my return.
The picture proved so much more vivid and lively than my
previous efforts that Shannon procured, through the kindly
Van Wisselingh, an invitation for me to submit it to the New
English Art Club. Ricketts summarily dismissed my very
modest notions about price. 'Don't make yourself cheap*
or others will take you at your own valuation. You can
always knock something off a price, but you can never put
anything on.*

The New English Art Club, at this time the single refuge
for artists out of sympathy with the Royal Academy, held
two exhibitions every year at the Dudley Gallery in Picca
dilly, just opposite, as was fitting, the gateway to Burlington
House. The Gallery was small, having accommodation for
not more than 150 paintings and drawings; the Jury, con
sisting of the most notable c outsiders * of the time, was thus,
of necessity, severely critical. With the Autumn Afternoon near
Winchester., I submitted a little brown picture of a barn.
Both were accepted, not, as Fry afterwards told me, without
a fight on his part against Charles Furse and others of the
then modernists. To crown all, the Winchester picture was
bought by Lady Harmsworth for sixty guineas. When the
news was broken to my family it was received with frank
incredulity. c What! Sixty guineas! You must mean sixteen.
Why ! His uncle never got that for a picture in his life. 9

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

The feature of this exhibition was Orpen's little picture of

The Minor, which in a moment raised a Slade student from
obscurity to a repute which his next exhibits confirmed and
made permanent. My little success was not repeated. The
Martello Tower,, sent in May 1901, might have become a fine
picture in the hands of Claude Monet ; in mine it was bright,
laboured and stuffy. In November of the same year my
Constable wanderings bore fruit in two pictures. Stoke
Church^ Suffolk, more or less vaguely in the Gainsborough
style, was admired by Ricketts. I thought it too brown, and
afterwards, for a show at Wolverhampton, repainted the
background so that it became nothing at all.

In the summer, however, I had seen at Van Wisselingh's
the Don Quixote by Daumier, now in the Berlin Gallery, and
had been so deeply impressed that I attempted, in a painting
of Old Sarum^ what I imagined to be a somewhat similar
simplification. The lessons of Strang, and collecting Japanese
prints, ought to have guided me in that direction sooner, but
not until I had seen that masterly specimen of Daumier was
I impelled to a practical experiment. The picture has now
grown hopelessly dark, but it was liked by Sturge Moore and
other friends., although it was not calculated to make any
show in an exhibition which contained Steer's Rainbow and
charming examples of Conder, Rothenstein and others.

May 1902 was notable for the first appearance of Augustus
John, already a complete master. I had met him just pre
viously at Rothenstein's, and it was from Rothenstein in
May 1903 that I received a singularly kind and charming
letter when my magnum opus of the moment was rejected, one
of the very few rejections from which I have ever suffered.
As I was shortly to be married the set-back was annoying;
but it was thoroughly deserved. I had tackled another
Claude Monet subject, poplars by a river against a bright
sky, repainted it rashly at the last moment (as Fm prone
to do) and rained it. The moment that it got back to Mark-
ham Square the painting was destroyed, beyond reparation
even by my landlady, who, with a touching if misguided

200

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

faith in my future, was wont to sew together privily the
fragments of pictures which I had cut up. She kept them,
so I'm told, for years.

The rooms which I shared with Cripps in Markham
Square gave ample room not only for painting, and for
writing my big book on Constable, but for boxing, which,
with occasional Sunday tramps in the Home Counties, con
tinued to be my chief exercise. When I was left desolate by
Cripps's marriage, his place was taken by my cousin Norman
Dickson. A hard-working, misogynist house-surgeon at St.
Thomas's Hospital, Ms good looks earned him the nickname
of Adonis at Roche's, and camouflaged a physique which
made him a trustworthy three-quarter back and a really
formidable pugilist. When his blue eyes got well alight
after a knock or two, the pace and violence of his hitting
called for every defensive device, and for counter-offensives
such as I was never compelled to use with others. Mayer,
afterwards of Colnaghi's, a plucky and active light-weight
pupil of Sam Blacklock, with W. G. Dobson, of the Harle
quins, a massive and determined heavy-weight, made more
comfortable sparring-partners. Dobson happened to drop
in one evening just after Norman Dickson had settled there.
The two discovered that they had been contemporaries at
Cheltenham, and regaled me, over whisky, with Cheltenham
'shop* into the small hours. WTien at last they rose to go
each, most ceremoniously, begged the other to go first.
Finally the Harlequin, whose bulk had carried him through
many a rough-and-tumble, said cheerily, 'Well! If you
won't go out first I must put you out/ and proceeded to do
so. I was afraid the good-humoured tussle which followed
would bring down the jerry-built house; but my private
forecast was not at fault. It was the Harlequin who was
heaved down the steps.

Dobson shortly afterwards asked me down to Teign-
mouth to meet his people, and in particular a younger
brother Denis, already a Blue and an International forward,
who would put me in my place. But when I saw that superb

2OI

SELF AND PARTNERS [1896-1903

specimen of humanity playing about easily with 4o-lb.
dumb-bells, I felt like the Queen of Sheba after meeting
Solomon, and flatly declined to put on the gloves with him.
The odds were too overwhelming; the risk of a bad accident
too great.

That very afternoon I had reason to bless my cowardice.
Newton Abbot were to play the Civil Service, and Denis
had become such a local hero that 'Dorbson ! ' 'Dorbson ! *
was the crowd's only battle-cry. He justified their applause
by his amazing activities, and by one outstanding feat. A
big Civil Service three-quarter got away with the ball.
Denis made a jump and a grab which, missing the man's
neck, slithered down his back till the fingers happened to
catch a little upturned fold of the jersey. But the hold was
enough for Denis. With a casual flick of his arm he lifted
that six-footer clean off the ground to turn a lumbering
somersault in the air, while the 'Dorbson' yells became
frantic. As I walked away after the match, a shrimp
between the two burly brothers, down the lane which the
crowd reverently made for them, a small boy, darling out an
arm and a finger towards Denis Dobson's ulster, turned to his
fellow-urchins with the triumphant cry, ' Alt touched *un. 5

During these years I was enabled by the kindness of Dr.
Butler and the Brasenose authorities to keep in touch with
the Windrush, though the river had suffered grievously since
my Oxford days. First came a visitor who deserved the
fate of his eponymous apostle, for taking and keeping no less
than twelve brace of those noble fish on one fatal day.
Then came pollution from the Witney mills, which turned
the river blue-black, killing the fish, their food, and the
very water-weeds. Re-stocking mended things but slowly.
Little brown quarter-pounders and one pure Lochleven
trout of two pounds were my first captures. Then as the
river recovered its colour and the weeds began to return,
the various new breeds amalgamated, taking the form
of a handsome brownish trout. This, in turn, reverted
gradually to the silver of the old Windrush stock, a

202

1896-1903] ROCHE'S

proof, if proof were needed, that environment is the
decisive factor.

During the intermediate stages, when under-water food
was presumably less abundant, and enemies like pike less
pressing, the trout took the fly much more freely. Indeed,
when there was no liatch of natural Mayfly they could often
be induced to rise by simulating one. Floating an artificial
gently and steadily over some likely spot for twenty minutes
would often bring about one or two tentative rises, and
finally a business-like 'chop, 3 resulting in capture. Such
tactics, alas! do not seem to entice the well-fed fish of
to-day.

203

CHAPTER XII
MARRIAGE

(1903)

Miss Rivington; Bruges; the Midland Railway; a book on
Constable ; James Orrock ; Norwich ; end of the Vale Press ;
marriage; Switzerland; a letter from Fry; negotiations for

the 'Burlington Magazine.*

THE prospect of the closing down of the Vale Press had, at
first, excited no- more than mild speculation as to future
employment. Speculation suddenly turned to anxiety when
I found that I wished to get married to one of my Rivington
cousins. The Rivington family consisted of two branches,
one devoted to printing and publishing, the other to the
law. The legal branch, together with my father's old friend
Mrs. William Rivington, had shown me consistent kindness
all through my years of trouble. Charles Robert Rivington,
the head of the Rivington solicitors' firm and Registrar of
the Stationers 3 Company, was no exception. A man of wide
interests, he spent much of his time in Westmorland, on
estates which he had inherited from Miss Hill, a relative of
Ms first wife. In virtue of his work on the Register of the
Stationers* Company he had been elected F.S.A. and, among
other good deeds, after ferreting out the exact position of
the house in which Hans Holbein died, had privately and
unostentatiously put up a tablet to the painter's memory
in the appropriate parish church, St. Andrew Undershaft.
In the summer of 1901 he happened to give a dinner-party
at Hurlingham, where I sat next to his daughter Florence,
a professional violinist, whom I had not seen for several
years, since she had only recently returned to London after
a long illness.

No less resolute and independent than artistically sensi-

204

MARRIAGE

tive, she had been trained at Darmstadt, studying the piano
and the violin. Now she had settled at Hampstead as a
sub-Professor of the violin at the Hampstead Conservatoire-^
under a Cecil Sharpe not yet entirely absorbed by English
folk-songs. I fell an immediate victim, but the way at first
was not always easy. One moment of very black despair
was temporarily lightened by meeting an old school-fellow
in a Sloane Square restaurant, and discovering that he too
was in a similar desperate plight. He found vent for Ms
feelings in a novel which still has a place among Ms many
delightful contributions to literature. My gloom gave place
to fiiry. I would prove I was a painter, and in that mood
produced The Portsmouth Road, which I still regard as the
best of my early products. The scene was found near
Witley Heath, and the middle distance, crowded with little
birch-trees and other soft Surrey foliage (wMch I generally
find unmanageable) , came right at the very first effort. It
was painted, tree by tree, "with a small sable brush, in pure
colour upon a rubbing of raw umber, in about an hour. I
often tried the method afterwards, but never had the same
success with it. I kept the picture by me for some years,
partly as an example and encouragement, partly for senti
mental reasons. Then, after exMbition in 1904, it got sold
in New Zealand.

The change in my fortune came suddenly in July 1902,
just when I had to go over to Bruges, to write about the
famous exMbition of that year for the t Athenaeum.' Bruges
overflowed with visitors. From the hotels I was driven to
cafes, and from cafes to *In De Palingpot/ securing there
a coffin-shaped attic, to the discomfiture of several rival
tourists. One of them had to take an unsavoury cupboard
under the stairs^ the remainder to resume their slum
wanderings. After dinner at a cafe, I settled at a round
table under a street-lamp, and there composed, with the
local pen and the local stationery^ a singularly unattractive
letter to my prospective father-in-law disclosing the situa
tion. But when I had done the picture-job (my notes, even

205

SELF AND PARTNERS [ Ig o 3

now, seem pretty accurate), all was made easy. Robert
Rivington apparently had views of his own as to my past
history; made allowances for my present unsatisfactory
position, and wished me luck.

I was due to dine that evening with the other branch of
the family, and being full of my happiness, asked them as
we sat down to dinner for their congratulations. The
request was received with round-eyed open-mouthed silence,
broken at last by the horrified question, c And do you mean
to say that Robert has given his consent? ' My affirmative
rendered the party almost reverential. I was puzzled, until
a blushing inquiry over the port revealed the secret. The
existence of two young step-brothers had been overlooked,
and their sister was thought to be her father's heiress.
Correcting the mistake gave visible relief, and restored our
normal friendly relations.

At the time I did not recognize what an effect upon my
painting this matrimonial connexion with Appleby was to
produce. Not only were the Westmorland fells to become
familiar: the mere journey North by the Midland line was
to be a continual inspiration and pleasure. Its comfortable
restaurant-cars were more than compensation for the inferi
ority of the permanent way to that of the L.N.W.R. ; then-
method of service saved the third-class passenger from the
disconcerting invasions between Crewe and my native
Preston which characterized the rival route. And, after the
first flat hundred miles of the Midlands were passed, the
industrial phenomena by the wayside, whether of fiery life
or of melancholy decay, revived and reinforced my early
impressions of Lancashire. The mighty mounds of Clay
Cross and a mysterious expanse of ruins near Rotherham
became irresistible attractions as the train rushed by. North
of Leeds, the Bronte country and the hills of Craven led up
to ancestral Stainforth and Ribblehead Moor with its three
tutelary giants, Pen-y-ghent, Ingleborough and Whernside.
Finally, after crossing the Pennine summit, came the run
down the gorge of Mallerstang into the wide Eden VaUey.

206

1903] MARRIAGE

Never had such a diversity of gifts thematic been provided
automatically for future exploration.

My big book, c Constable, and his Influence on Landscape
Painting/ was now finished. I had done my best to identify
the subjects of his pictures and sketches by visiting the
various places where Constable had worked., and to arrange
his products in chronological order, by their topography and
by technical comparisons between dated and undated paint
ings, being conscious that in other respects I could not do
all that I wanted to do. It was not easy for a totally unknown
clerk to get access to pictures in private collections ; and, as
Sir Charles Tennant remarked when he showed me his
treasures, 'You are a very young man to be writing a book/
Nor could I add much to Leslie's narrative. A batch of
Constable's letters indeed was offered to me, of which Leslie
had made but little use, but the price asked was more than
the whole payment I was to get from the publishers. I think
Lord Plymouth afterwards acquired them for his book on
Constable. Judging from the single glance at them which
I was allowed, these letters were very different in general
tone from the polite extracts given by LesHe. Constable's
outspoken and contemptuous comments upon his con
temporaries not only helped to explain the tardiness of his
acceptance by them, but would have infused some liveliness
into my text. 1 The historical and personal part of the book
had thus to follow conventional lines ; but the chronological
sequence of Constable's pictures and sketches was so care
fully worked out that I still find it useful.

Among those whom I had occasion to approach in my
researches was Mr. James Orrock. That ingenious collector
received me in dressing-gown, and slippers at his big house
in Bedford Square, crammed with pictures, porcelain, furni
ture and miscellaneous objects of art, all of the 'ighest
quality.* The porcelain looked good: a glance at the
pictures enjoined caution. He showed me one pleasing

1 The recently published 'Letters of John Constable R.A. to C. R. LesHe

.' (London: Constable; 1931), display similar frankness.

2O7

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903

Constable, a view of the house at Dedham with c Isabel
Constable on the horse in the foreground. 5 I timidly asked
if it could be Isabel? The picture dated from 1811-12, years
before Isabel was born. c WeH, if it isn't Isabel it's somebody
else' was the airy reply. I noticed a queer discrepancy in
another picture. 'Oh, a clever man can soon put that
right* ; as if touching up or repainting Old Masters was the
most natural thing in the world. When the remains of his
collection came to Christie's, a year or two later, I had to
try to separate the few sheep from the interesting half-breeds
and positive goats in that variegated flock. While I was
puzzling over these problems, Mr. W. G. Rawlinson, the
Turner collector, told me of a curious experience. Calling
at Bedford Square, he had been taken upstairs, and left in a
passage while Mr. Orrock was found. Seeing an open door,
Mr. Rawlinson looked in and hastily withdrew. A Turner
painting rested on a chair; on the easel by it was a facsimile,
the paint still wet.

The agreement with Messrs. Constable for the book's publi
cation led to an unexpected result. Among other stipula
tions, I bargained for a final payment of 100 to the author
when the edition (a limited one) went out of print. I called
one day to inquire how the book was selling. Less than
twenty copies were left, and it suddenly struck us both that
my precious agreement would actually penalize the pub
lishers for selling them. We laughed and compromised.
Since then I have read and amended many a publisher's
agreement, but never again have I drawn one up.

Some months later the redoubtable T. W. H. Crosland
engaged me to write a little book on 'Pictures and Picture-
Collecting/ for a new series of which he was editor. Cash,
in view of my wedding, was not to be despised, and in the
course of obtaining it after I had 'done the work, I found
that those who are accustomed to attack others can be quite
hurt when others turn upon them. The book itself is
naturally now quite out of date, but the appendix on
'Municipal Collecting/ written just after I had taken a big

208

igos] MARRIAGE

dose of Swift, still makes me smile, especially the final
paragraph.

The need of settling some little problems of the Norwich
School took me again to Norwich. The changes there In
the last nine years were almost incredible. The quiet
tumble-down city of Crome had become a hive of bustling
modernity. The old Royal Hotel, recalling In Its solemn
fustiness the days of Dickens, had given place to a huge
structure, thoroughly up-to-date. Electric light blazed
everywhere; electric trams buzzed and clanged past its
palatial doors. LucMly Mr. James Reeve, the veteran
authority of the Castle Museum, had not also vanished, and
the hours spent with Mm, Ms collections and Ms memories of
painters and rogues, mostly rogues, gave me an invaluable
framework for future study. The elder Paul, for Instance,
one of Crome's most gifted followers, had taken refuge In
London, because he was mixed up In the murder of a girl at
Norwich. In London, as I knew, he had maintained Mmself
for the rest of Ms life by forging Cromes and Constables,
with the help of a son, whom Herbert Home remembered
as a venerable copyist at the National Gallery, much patron
ized by dealers who needed eighteenth-century portraits.
Mr. Reeve knew good drawing when he saw It, and produced
with pride some studies of horses in water-colour wMch had
recently been made by a young painter from the Norwich
Art School. So completely accomplished were they that I
made a note of the young artist's name. It was Munnlngs.

Forgers particularly interested me, and I had some
thought of compiling a work on "Forgers and Forgeries of
the British School/ Investigation Into their secrets was not
always easy. Once, when trying to * pump * a dealer with
great experience in such things, I was pulled up sharp with,
'Young man, don't you go asking too many questions about

, or you'll be getting yourself knocked on the head one of

these dark nights. 5 c jlmmy ' Webb, the reputed maker of so
many Constables and Turners, was an especial favourite,
and to discover several signed works by Mm in a private

209

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903

collection at Oxford, with a technique identical in many
respects with the imitations, was a notable experience.
Once in a little shop in Shaftesbury Avenue I saw a small
version by Mm of Constable's Lock, which I thought I might
buy as a specimen. The price asked was ten pounds. I
offered five, saying that was enough for an imitation. 'If
you know that/ said the shopman, 'you ought to know that
Jimmy Webb is worth eight pounds in the trade, any day. 3
By an odd coincidence, this very study, or its twin brother,
was presented to me more than thirty years later by my
friend Louis Clarke.

The Norwich visit was prompted, in part, by a request from
Robert Dell to write an article on Cotman for the 'Burling
ton Magazine, 3 which came out in March 1903, on a scale
of unexampled magnificence. Only a year before, the
'Connoisseur* had scored an instant success, and my cousin
Walter Clay had done his best to get me a place on the staff,
by introducing me to J. T. Bailey and others who conducted
it. But a luncheon with them at the Trocadero was not a
success. They seemed to me too sanguine, too happy-go-
lucky. I, no doubt, seemed to them pedantic and over
cautious. Some of the people I had met at that luncheon
had now seceded to found the 'Burlington. 5 The first
numbers were indeed marvellous, but I did not see how they
could possibly pay expenses, and it was with commerce just
then that I was necessarily concerned.

I was to be married in July, had taken a house in London,
spent nearly all my small savings upon furniture, and the
Vale Press was to close down finally on June 3oth. Ricketts
drew up a scheme for a new joint publishing business, just
to help me through, but I did not like the idea of being a
drag upon him. Laurence Housman most kindly suggested
that I ^ should succeed him as critic to the 'Manchester
Guardian ' ; Rendall offered to extend the scope of the work
I did for the 'Athenaeum ' ; a big firm of advertising agents
in the City offered a job worth 500 a year to start with.
This last I was preparing to accept, though the people were

2IO

I9 o 3 ] MARRIAGE

total strangers, when Robert Rivington put his foot down*
Art was the thing I liked, which I had studied, and by which
I was making my way : I had better stick to it. Even if
for the moment it brought in very little, the tide would be
sure to turn. With all my desire for independence, it was
impossible to fight against a decision so authoritative, so
considerate of my natural inclinations, and so contrary to
current family opinion. Not without internal qualms we
acquiesced in what seemed rather a rash gamble with
Providence.

At the end of June, the Vale Press duly and inexorably
ceased to be. The final meeting was attended by H. A.
Moncrieff, Rivington's old manager, who after auditing the
books and accounts proceeded to report upon them. Hacon,
assuming for the occasion the dignity and severity of a judge,
pressed him closely as to the correctness of the figures and
then as to the disposal of the alleged profits. ' Why ! You* vc
had them yourselves,' was honest MoncrlefFs answer, 'and
I have never seen so wonderful a return from so small a
capital since Arrowsmith (?) published " The Mystery of a
Hansom Cab." 5 Lastly, the value of the trade accounts still
owing to the firm was challenged. I vouched for them, and
was offered 50 if I could collect them in a fortnight. This,
with the aid of a small discount, proved easy enough, and
the partners presented me with a further jioo. As a matter
of fact, the total bad debts of the firm in seven years amounted
to i 9 us. 6d.

On July 2 ist we were married at St. Paul's, Avenue Road,
Laurence Binyon acting as best man, and losing in the
subsequent confusion his new top-hat. When we set off for
Switzerland, being unaccustomed to the ways of trains-de
luxe, my blunders in the matter of luggage and language
were enough to ruin for good my reputation as a traveller.
Switzerland, however, was no longer the fog-bound desola
tion I remembered, but such a place of glittering snow, sharp
rocks and blue sHes, as to occupy both my wife's little
camera and my little sketch-book, confirming incidentally

211

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903

the Impressions of brightness I had received four years
earlier in Italy.

Had I studied under some Paris-trained artist I should, no
doubt, have learned much earlier the fascination of light in
a landscape, but Shannon and Ricketts had directed my
attention to the traditional technique of oil-painting and to
design, as exemplified In the works by Old Masters which
were visible in London. These, excepting of course the
Primitives, being almost always low in tone, either by Inten
tion or from the accumulation of old varnishes, drew me to
think of similar depth and richness as Ideals grander than
those of the Impressionists, who looked more chalky then
than they do now. Their whites have grown more trans
lucent with age. It was doubtless a healthy discipline to
have studied traditional design and technique, but the
discipline had already lasted long enough; and to graft new
and brighter methods upon that sober stock was henceforth
a continuous effort.

Coining to Meirlngen, I was thrilled to recognize there the
scene of the drawing by J. R. Cozens, A Valley with Winding
Streams., at South Kensington, which had always seemed to
contain the quintessence of his genius. Though the canaliza
tion of the Aar had done away with the meandering waters,
the crags were unmistakable. It was exciting too, after
clambering up the hillside to the Relchenbach, to find such
a mass of water plunging into a cold black abyss as fully
satisfied my natural taste for terrifying aspects of nature.
Dr. Moriarty could not have chosen a more appropriate
place of extinction for my famous namesake. On the way
back we were to spend a week In Paris, and we spent it
almost entirely In the hotel. My wife, to her keen dis
appointment and extreme discomfort, had a sharp attack of
quinsy, and could only get a glimpse of the sights from a
carriage on our very last day. I must add that, in defiance
of the doctor's orders, she Insisted on getting out at the
Louvre, and being helped upstairs as far as the Salon Carre.

From the Continent we travelled to Appleby, and there I

212

MARRIAGE

tooted and landed a trout of over 2 Ibs., from a chance cast
with a Devon minnow, made merely by way of demonstra
tion to a fellow-guest at Castle Bank. I have fished the river
since for over thirty strenuous years without getting a trout
of more than half the weight. While enjoying these amenities
of life, somewhat nervously, since I knew that they must be
short-lived, I was roused and recalled to action by an express
letter from Roger Fry. Since it affected my whole future
I had better reproduce it.

14 NEW BURLINGTON STREET, LONDON, W.,
Sept. 7, 1903.

MY DEAR HOLMES, I have been trying for dap to get into
communication with you for days on most important business.
It is this 3 the Burlington is in extremis. It is a really sound thing
I believe^ but has been run on insufficient capital and with
absolutely no business method. Berenson and I are only just
now aware of the true state of things, and to-day have interviewed
Spottiswoode about it. I believe the only thing to save it is this.
To get you to be joint editor with Dell at a salary of ^300 for
the first six months after which if, as I feel sure it will be, it is
a success yr. salary should be raised or your work lessened. For
this ^300 you would give the mornings only and work at getting
the business straight, and also give your advice on the general
editing and sub-editing of the paper. In any case it may be
worth yr. while to think of this quite apart from, a disinterested
goodwill to the cause of art study wh. will suffer a serious blow
if this fails.

I am able to make this offer because Del will agree to anything
we can think out in order to save the situation. Wire to me at
High buildings, Fernhurst, Haslemere. Berenson and I come
up to interview the Spottiswoodes on Thursday. The ideal
thing would be for you to come up a day earlier and be present
at the whole meeting.

In any case wire to me at Fernhurst (for wires leave out
Haslemere) what you can do for us. Yrs. in haste and very
urgently,

ROGER E, FRY.

Naturally we lost no time in coming up to 58 Kensington
Park Road, a chaos of piled packing-cases, and 3 while my
wife returned to her work at tie Hampstead Conservatoire^

213

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903

I rushed hither and thither in the attempt to introduce a
modest degree of order into the affairs of the e Burlington
Magazine. 5 More than three hectic months were spent
among the ever-shifting sands of company-promotion ; the
changes in the situation being so many and so complicated
that to enumerate them would be neither profitable nor
possible, I can recall only a few salient features of that
confused struggle in the liquidation-mud.

To begin with, I went down into Surrey to learn about
the situation from Fry and his wife, who were staying there
with the Berensons. That delightful artist Mrs. Fry was
deeply, almost too deeply, interested in the crisis. Her
enthusiasm and her delicate wit had helped, I think, to make
the Berensons consider whether they might not take the
predominant part in reviving the magazine. But when the
predominance seemed likely to extend to criticism as well as
to finance, I became apprehensive. Friends like Claude
Phillips and other English writers of repute, not to mention
such authorities as Bode in Berlin, would not exactly welcome
a Berensonian dictatorship, and the job of the nominal editor
would be no bed of roses. Luckily, perhaps, the amount of
capital that might be required for control was so considerable
as to cause the idea to be postponed, and finally to be
dropped.

Since the c Burlington * was a handsome and attractive
magazine, even its creditors could not relinquish the hope
of a resurrection, and to that end encouraged Fry's efforts
to raise new capital. On this errand we tramped about
London together : but at the money-begging business I proved
to be utterly useless, being fit only to check figures, work
endless calculations, and pick holes in the plausible schemes
which various interested parties laid before us. Fry on the
other hand was simply magnificent. No rebuff could shake
his determination to carry the matter through. The promise
of 1000, given promptly and quietly by Herbert Cook
after we had explained our ideas to him, was our first great
encouragement^ and consoled us for the refusals we had met

214

igos] MARRIAGE

from some other prominent * art-patrons.' Mrs. Herringham,

Mr. Wyndham Cook, Max Rosenheim, Campbell Dodgson,
were among the pioneer subscribers (bless them all !) .

Suddenly, in the middle of October, and of these exertions,
Fry was put hors de combat. Mrs. Fry was taken so seriously ill
that he had to remain in Surrey in constant attendance upon
her. c I*m almost at my wits' end with anxiety/ he writes,
c and momentary hope and fear. I know you will under
stand and act for the best. This wretched Burlington is part
responsible for the whole thing : it wd. be terrible if that
failed now, so I must resign it to you for a few days more.'
Knowing my disabilities as a raiser of capital, I could only
return with desperate energy to the business of negotiating.

The chief question in this financial nightmare was, * With
whom can we most safely negotiate?* First came the
original proprietors of the magazine, the Savile Publishing
Company, but their days were numbered. Indeed, the
magazine had practically passed out of their hands, and was
being carried on by the printers and other large creditors.
Their goodwill was essential, yet the actual property in the
magazine would be vested at the end of October in the very
business-like liquidator, Mr. F. S. Salaman. Also the editor,
Robert Dell, was endeavouring independently to raise fresh
capital, and thereby retain his place under any new dis
pensation. His chief supporters were Lord Windsor and,
I think, Alfred Beit, who had been prompted thereto by
Bode. Bode's action deserves to be remembered as a rare
piece of international generosity. How many people here,
I wonder, would try to raise money for a German magazine?

Four separate eagles, in addition to ourselves, were thus
hovering round the sick-bed of the c Burlington. 3 The advan
tage of position lay with the printers. Not only could they
hold up production at any moment but, as owners or con-
trollers of a considerable group of papers and magazines,
they possessed expert knowledge of publishing in addition
to its machinery. They were ingenious too. With Dell's
little capital to help them, they conceived a plan for taking

215

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903

over the magazine, and for putting It in charge of D. S.
MacColl, already connected with them as the successful
editor of the c Architectural Review/ Though I was work
ing every day upon the finance of the "Burlington/ and was
in constant touch with the promoters of the scheme, I heard
nothing of it until MacColl, with characteristic loyalty,
referred the offer to Fry, and then declined it, so that the
field might be free for us.

The liquidator's aim and duty were to sell the Magazine
for the best price he could get. He had meanwhile to pro
duce the November and December numbers, at a loss which
made him doubly anxious to be rid of it. Dell, having been
rudely shocked by the MacColl proposal, which would have
left him out in the cold, was ready to make any reasonable
arrangement for joining forces with us, and buying the
* Burlington 3 from the liquidator. He was, even then, a
brilliant and experienced journalist, with a knowledge of
writers upon art, their merits and their fads, which I totally
lacked. On the other hand, I had practically managed the
magazine for several months, though without any definite
right to be there at all. When, therefore, our new company
was formed, and the magazine passed into its legal posses
sion on New Year's Day 1904, I was made Managing
Director, as well as joint editor with Dell, an arrangement
which suited us both, and worked thereafter without a hitch.

216

CHAPTER XIII

THE 'BURLINGTON MAGAZINE 5
(1903-1909)

Troubles of an economist; Diirer: Chantrey; questions of
public policy; MacColl goes to MUlfoank; Fry enlists help in
New York; collecting advertisements; some notable con
tributors ; Anatole France in Rome ; the Flora bust ; National
Gallery affairs.

THE table on which I am writing an article shakes under
the blows with which Miss Dell, sitting just opposite, rattles
off another article on her Remington; behind her, three
cheery gentlemen, two of whom it will be my painful duty
to lose very shortly (and they know it), are swopping stories;
close by, on my right, an unsympathetic author alternately
threatens and whines for money which I can't pay Mm.
Such is my memory of 14 New Burlington Street, when I
descended upon the c Burlington Magazine 5 in December
1903.

Hardened as I was to the arithmetic of failure in book-
publishing, the figures of magazine production astounded
me. At every point money seemed to flow out ; at none did
any seem to come in. It was evident that Art, and high
ideals, and all that, must take their chance until this financial
landslide was arrested. Compared with his predecessors, the
liquidator had been a stern economist ; yet, if we could not
improve upon his figures, our precious capital would scarcely
last us three months. By an immediate move to 17 Bemers
Street we saved rent ; by ruthless reduction of staff we saved
salaries ; but to cut down the cost of the magazine itself was
not so simple. Authors and readers we might disregard;
credit with advertisers must be risked ; economies elsewhere
were met with a threat of foreclosure.

217

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903-1909

To Sir Edgar Speyer, as the biggest business man among
our backers, I went off with our dilemma. 'How did you
answer them? ' said he. I had told them to go to Jericho.
e l shouldn't have said that,* replied Sir Edgar, 'but Mr.
Frank Dawes happens to be here, so we will consult him. 3
On that famous gentleman's coming. Sir Edgar explained
in two minutes what had taken me fifteen, finally asking,
'What would you do?' c Tell 'em to go to Hell' was the
unexpected and consoling reply. Then to me, 'You can just
say to Mr. X, with Mr. Frank Dawes's compliments, that
it's no good; and you'll have no further trouble/ The
moment I got back from Lothbury, I rang up and gave the
message. It was received in silence, and our enforced
economies proceeded without another word of protest. Even
then we could only reduce the deficit on the magazine to
a quarter of what it had been a month or two before ; to
turn the loss into a profit seemed impossible.

Fry, from the first, had seen what an influence the
'Burlington* might exert. Hitherto it had dealt almost
exclusively with ancient art, with collecting and collectors.
To widen its scope by including current problems was a
novelty ; but it soon became as much a part of my business
as getting articles from the distinguished critics of the day,
and anointing their scratches with editorial butter when
they happened to squabble. More really embarrassing were
certain veterans, whom I knew slightly, but whose contribu
tions had to be rejected. I was compelled to decline election
at the Athenaeum, because the list of members included
several whose appeals in a club smoking-room would have
been difficult to resist. On my hard editorial throne I felt
comparatively safe, and the Civil Servants at the Union
Club, which I joined somewhat later, were much too wise
and too busy to touch upon our problems, except when I
asked for help.

Only once or twice was I forced into the critical arena, as
when Diirer's Portrait of his Father was bought for the National
Gallery. Claude Phillips was to write about it; a special

218

1903-1909] THE 'BURLINGTON MAGAZINE *

photogravure plate was made, and printed, In honour of the
occasion. At the very last moment, Phillips took fright,
after reading the doubts expressed by Dtirer specialists, like
Friedlander and Dodgson, and threw up the job. So the
task of defending our costly frontispiece fell to me.

When the picture was shown at Burlington House during
the previous winter, I had examined it very carefully before
writing an article in the "Athenaeum, 9 emphasizing its fine
quality. But Fry was among the picture's opponents. *I
hear,' he wrote, 'that you are writing on the Dtirer, if it is
not too late let me implore you to pause before writing an
editorial backing up the purchase. It is not only that I
definitely disagree with the view, and considering that owing
to your article my voice is silenced in the "Athenaeum, 55 I
think that might weigh with you but it is a question on
which it is desirable that the Burlington should not commit
itself unless we are quite certain to be right, or at least to
command the respect of expert opinion.

'I know you formed your favourable opinion of the picture
independently of Ricketts, but his support has doubtless
given you greater confidence, and has perhaps prevented you
from weighing quite impartially the very strong feeling of
critics whose opinion on such a point allowing every regard
to Ricketts's extraordinary gifts deserves, very serious con
sideration.

As a member of the consultative committee and known to
be intimately connected with the Burlington, I should feel
the position such an editorial would put me in very keenly,
and might feel compelled to disown what I think is a hasty
and unscholarly attribution.

4 You wiU know that I do not wish to impose all my
opinions on the Burlington, and you will hardly accuse me
of intolerance, and I trust you to see that I am only desirous
in the interests of the Magazine that it should not be hastily
and prematurely committed to a line which admits, to say
the least, some danger of putting it out of touch with the
best opinion in England and abroad.*

219

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903-1909

Such a warning made me doubly cautious. 1 had already
been round to Trafalgar Square to collect Sir Edward
Poynter's evidence, only to discover that he had relied
chiefly upon my own c Athenaeum 3 article. Luckily, close
examination of the picture and its inscription yielded more
positive proofs. There was no need for hedging or with
drawal; Fry waived his protest; the article duly appeared;
met with no effective counterblast, and the portrait was
accepted, to the delight of Ricketts, who had voiced Ms
opinion of its critics -with unquotable pungency.

Two months later Ricketts writes from Broadstairs : ' We
have been shouting with joy over the Chantrey Report, it has
given us a new home phrase " Chantrey would not like it."
I think your evidence reads all right, there is a John-Bull-
Jun. ring about it, next to the hesitating and self-conscious
insincerities of our friend R. F. Old Carlyle posed one or
two stumpers to you and D. S. M. I am bound to say I think
the last and Guthrie both were admirable as damaging
witnesses. Conway was excellent, his evidence was sane and
constructive and above the fads of the moment.' This fight
of MacColFs for the better administration of the Chantrey
Bequest [resulting in the Committee of the House of Lords,
to which Ricketts refers] provided the * Burlington* with
much material for comment. The administration of
Galleries and Museums gave us still more.

Like Shannon and Ricketts I was a c museum specimen, 3
proud of our London collections, grateful for what I had
learned in them, and keen to see them perfected. The
appointment of a Minister of the Fine Arts appeared, at first
sight, to be the proper solution. Closer study of the idea,
and a casual remark by Lord Windsor 3 a helpful member of
our Board and First Commissioner of Works, as to the in
accessibility of some of his ministerial colleagues, revealed an
unexpected and quite fatal flaw. Such a minister would have
no real power. Would not any Premier, when Cabinet-
making, find that there was one supporter left who must be
provided for, yet could not be trusted with any responsible

220

1903-19^9] THE 'BURLINGTON MAGAZINE 1

office? To make the poor weakling Minister of the Fine
Arts would be the obvious way of escape. He could do no
harm there; and no good either. So the idea of an Art
Ministry was quietly shelved.

The steady drain of works of art from England was the
anxiety at the back of all our thoughts. We had deplored it
long before 1900; at the end of 1903, while Fry and I were
struggling to save the "Burlington/ the feeling had grown so
general that, on the initiative of MacColl and others, the
National Art-Collections Fund came into being. Ricketts
gave me an account of the inaugural meeting. All the
recognized authorities, including the recognized obstruc
tionists, attended, and, regardless of the real promoters, the
latter elected themselves as the Committee. So surprised
was the meeting that the election came near to being
approved by stupefied silence. Then from the body of the
hall a lady rose and, speaking with reckless, breathless frank
ness, pointed out that none of those responsible for the
meeting had been chosen, while most of the chosen were just
the people who were not wanted. Thanks to this plucky
action by Mrs. Hemngham, a new election had to take
place, and the Fund was properly started.

Articles on such current topics, as I have said, had origin
ally been conceived as a means of widening the c Burlington's 5
appeal, and giving variety to the contents. But during 1905
current topics became more exciting than aesthetic dis
coveries. The fierce disputes in the Press over the Rokeby
Velazquez 3 attracted universal notice, driving us finally to
draft suggestions for a constructive policy in 'The Lesson of
the Rokeby Velazquez* (January 1906). The essential
feature of it, which I had previously ^ adumbrated in the
* Times, 5 was c To save for the National Gallery at any cost
some twelve or fifteen pictures of the highest importance,
which, if once lost, could never be replaced/ Nearly twenty
years passed before an agreement was made with the
Treasury on these very lines, 'The Wilton Diptych 5 and the
'Cornaxo Titian 3 being the first fruits.

221

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903-1909

Another outcome of these discussions was the principle of
exhibiting to the public only the best things in a museum,
and keeping the rest as a s Reference Section' for special
students. It was suggested (April 1906) by the methods of
the new Museum at Boston, and has since been applied with
advantage to the National Portrait Gallery and the National
Gallery.

The Prime Minister, Mr. Balfour, a professed lover of the
arts, did absolutely nothing for them that I can remember,
and through this critical year of 1905 left the National
Gallery without a Director. Claude Phillips was getting old
and had made enemies, as active scholars in those days were
bound to do. Fry, in consequence, became the fancied
candidate^ and gave me an illuminating account of his inter
view in Whitehall. After explaining what he had done in
the world of art to a high official, who appeared to under
stand and to care very little about the matter, he was finally
asked, rather testily, ' Yes, but isn't there anyone whose name
we should know, who could tell us something about you?'
Fry was nonplussed. At last he timidly ventured, * Perhaps
my father, Sir Edward Fry . . .' 'What!' interrupted the
other, * Are you a son of Sir Edward Fry? Why didn't you
say so at once? That will be all right.'

Nevertheless no offer of the Directorship arrived until
Fry, following the example of Sir Purdon Clarke, had
accepted *a proposal from the Metropolitan Museum, and
was on the point of sailing for New York. So Holroyd's
appointment to Trafalgar Square followed in due course,
leaving the Tate Gallery Keepership vacant. Here Fry's
experience came in usefol. MacColl was the candidate of
the younger generation; but the Academic opposition to
him was expected to be formidable, in view of his Chaiitrey
Bequest triumph. It was to Mm, and to him alone, that we
owed the House of Lords' inquiry, and the removal, or at
least the ventilation, of the main cause of difference between
the Royal Academy and the Outsiders.
When MacColl talked over the Tate vacancy with me at

222

ROGER FRY

(Photo: A. C. Cooper and Sons)

1903-1909] THE 'BURLINGTON MAGAZINE'

Gatti's, I told Mm about Fry's interview, and asked if he had
any sort of personal connexion -with the Prime Minister. It
appeared that Ms father's church had been upon the
Campbeil-Bannerman estate. That was of course enough.
Campbell-Barmemian gave MacCoM an interview, remem
bered his father, grasped the position at once, and delivered
judgment, c 'It seems to me that we must do as we do with
Bishops. Firrst we appoint a High Churrch Bishop and
please the High Churrch party; then we appoint a Low
Churrch Bishop and please the Low Churrch party. By
appointing Hobroyd we have pleased Poynter and that lot :
now the other side must have their turrn.' As a matter of
fact the opposition proved less than was anticipated. Mac-
Col the official would be less dangerous to the Academy
than MacColl the free-lance journalist: Sargent, among
others, backed Ms claim; in due course it triumphed, and
the appointment quickly justified all our hopes.

Fry's departure for America, disastrous as we felt it to be
for the National Gallery, proved a godsend to our journal
ism. The moment was indeed critical. In spite of all
economies, our working capital was nearly exhausted. But
Fry was not. He lost no opportunity of pressing our claims
upon Ms new associates, and though more than once after
wards we were in sore straits, Ms enthusiasm ultimately
moved Mr. Pierpont Morgan, Mr. John G. Johnson, his
friend Mr. J. W. Simpson, and Mr. Henry Walters of Balti
more, to take up shares sufficient to carry us through till
1909, when, for the first time, our balance-sheet showed a
small profit.

On one occasion Fry's energy as a spell-binder recoiled
upon Mm rather cruelly. c Was ever poor devil so hoist with
his own petard ? * he writes to me. "Here was I swearing to
Fiick that he couldn't invest 300 better than in the
Burlington, and behold he meant to give me the money for
advice etc. to him, and so I have to keep all the savings I've
made in our blessed business where they may go to a
liquidator, or a mortgage or something any day and think

223

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903-1909

what I could have done if H. C. Frick had been so good as
to invest the money for me, instead of I (thinking it was his)
for him. Alas, Alas. But now 1 mean to devote serious
attention to the Burlington. No more nonsense for me about
original research 3 serious criticism and such bunkum. Give
it 'em hot and strong I say. The Picture of the Year, How
to collect Carpet-bags, Alma Tadema at home , Oh
you'll see.*

Of the helpers whom Fry thus secured I met only Mr.
Morgan and Mr. Johnson. Mr. Morgan so overwhelmed me
at our first interview by his terrifying look and monumental
silence^ that I could hardly speak, much less explain our
need for money, which was the purport of my mission.
Subsequently, when we got to work on his collections at
Prince's Gate, he put Ms fierceness aside and proved excel
lent company. We had hardly got upstairs when Alfred
de Rothschild, the despot of the National Gallery Board,
came to call. Mr. Morgan, promising to come down and
see Mm in a few minutes, started going over Ms cabinet of
miniatures with me. We were still discussing them, and the
mild, exquisite and gigantic cigar provided for me was
smoked down to the butt, when our talk was interrupted by
a timid reminder from a manservant that Mr. de RothscMld
had been waiting downstairs for more than an hour.

Mr. John G.Johnson, perhaps the only American collector
who trusted entirely to Ms own judgment, was then building
up the varied and interesting series of paintings of all schools
and periods wMch he bequeathed to Ms native PhiladelpMa.
With this keen intelligence were united great kindliness,
charm of manner and an independent honesty, which caused
Mm to be trusted and consulted by the most powerful men
of Ms day in the Eastern States. Though but a lawyer of
relatively moderate means, he had, like Mr. Morgan, great
influence over the kings of finance, and this, coupled with
Ms personal generosity, enabled the * Burlington' to beat
out at last from the perilous shoals of finance among which
it had laboured for six years.

224

1903-1909] THE 'BURLINGTON MAGAZINE*

The business of preparing lectures for Oxford at first made
serious inroads upon managerial and editorial time, but
when things were at their worst a friend, Algernon Smith,
did me good service as a secretary, and our very able typist.
Miss Armstrong, could be trusted with almost anything* In
October igo6 3 my colleague Dell, who was much interested
in French affairs, and particularly in neo-Catholicism^
decided to take a post as Foreign Correspondent in Paris.
He was succeeded early in 1907 by my Brasenose friend,
Harold Child, who helped me thenceforth with the unfailing
tact and fine literary taste which have long since found a
worthier field of action. When I now read what I believe
to be Ms articles in the c Times/ I blush to think that for
two years or more I should have been blindly content to
take the senior place. Our little community was otherwise
unchanged,, and worked on happily without a single Htch 3
Frank Woollen and Gordon Stables controlling their respec
tive sections of the business as well and as unobtrusively as
they do still,

Not possessing Fry's "capitalist-appeal/ I set myself to
helping our advertisement revenue, the one thing needful
for every sort of independent journalism. I knew most of
the big dealers, and discovered that I could be quite shame
less in telling them that it was their duty, as well as their
interestj to give us a helping hand in that way. At the
outset I had a stroke of luck. While talking, with no
apparent result, to the superior being who controlled the
London headquarters of a great international firm, our
conversation was interrupted by the entry of a sturdy man
in a rather shabby raincoat, carrying a heavy bag. The
superb one crumpled up before the new-comer., and fol
lowed Mm meekly into some inner sanctum. Emerging
after a few moments, he said that Mr. X, the head of the
whole firm, would Eke to meet me. The bag contained some
excelent miniatures. These I duly admired, explaining in
the course of our discussion how it was he had found me
there. Mr. X happened to be at war with the no less

225

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903-1909

mighty firm of Y. 'Does Y advertise?' he asked. 'No?
Then I'll make him. I'll take a whole page for a year ; just
my name is enough to put on it. He'll have to follow suit
next month : and see that you make him pay well/

Y was not the only one to follow suit ; but several held
out. When I approached Lockett Agnew he nearly exploded.
He had never advertised in his life. Then, in the end,
characteristically, 'Well! I'll give the magazine 100, and
you can do what you dam well please with it.' Mr. Asfaer
Wertheimer and Mr. Sulley were two tough nuts which I
entirely failed to crack. Mr. Wertheimer would listen
politely for any length of time, but always said "No* at the
end of it : Sulley promptly reduced the conversation to an
exchange of cynical and quite unprofitable chaff.

Nor shall I forget my first interview with the friend who is
now Lord Duveen, at which he calmly proposed to buy a
whole number of the 'Burlington/ in order to describe and
illustrate a collection which he had just purchased. It was
vain, at first, for me to urge that such Napoleonic measures
were contrary to our basic principles; he would take no
refusal. The mere pressure of his determination and
enthusiasm was difficult to resist, indeed I found his energy
quite fascinating, as I have done ever since, and when I
finally said No, ' it was said with more qualification than
our custom was. Another friend, C. H. Collins Baker, came
to me very differently. Among the articles submitted was
one upon Foucquet which we could not use, but the hand
writing of the manuscript was so exceptional that I was
curious to see the author. When he called, we became
Mends on the spot. It was hot weather, and his democratic
suspicion of Professors and Editors was allayed by finding
me in shirt-sleeves.

Of the older English authorities, Mr. W. H. James Weale,
with his long white beard and his semi-blindness, was
undoubtedly the most picturesque, and the most scrupulous
in scholarship ; Claude Phillips our closest ally. Innumer
able letters gave us the benefit of his irritations and his

226

1903-1909] THE 'BURLINGTON MAGAZINE'

discoveries, Ms doubts, his likes and Ms dislikes. Others
might find Mm difficult. I found him invariably generous,
with a rare conviction as to what was right and what was
wrong wMch enabled Mm, trembling all the time at the
social and official dangers which such audacity involved, to
tell the truth in the * Daily Telegraph. 5 Superior young
persons might sneer at his enthusiasms, his emotionalism.
Yet through them Phillips created a lively general interest
in Art which did excellent service to all connected with it,
until, after his death, the light he kindled was gradually
dimmed and then extinguished by the clever, tedious
theoretics of the New Age.

But Claude Phillips had other weapons besides enthusi
asm. His long experience of European picture-galleries, his
wonderful memory and his repute as a critic, gave his
pronouncements an authority wMch no one since Ms day
(and perhaps before it) has exercised in this country. I am
not forgetting Ruskin or Berenson. Their work is a per~
manent contribution to English literature, but they did not
live, as Philips did, in the middle of the critical arena,
taking part week after week in contemporary 'discussion, and
suffering in the end from the orator's fate. As with Haterius,
e Comrum illud et prqftmns cum ipsa simul extinctum est* With
the death of Claude Phillips, there vanished a force working
for righteousness, through public opinion and through the
pressmen who followed his lead, wMch made even the
politicians take heed to their ways.

The period did not lack tea-cup storms, and graver
editorial problems. My friend Dr. Butler, for example,
created no little sensation in the Oriental dove-cots, both
here and on the Continent, when he first pointed out that
* Persian * lustre-ware had been invented centuries earlier in
Egypt. "The man doesn't even know Arabic, 3 said one
famous authority, when I went to consult Mm before pub
lishing this heretical contribution; fi if you take my advice,
you'll have nothing to do with it.' Fortunately I happened
to have read Dr. Butler's 'Arab Conquest of Egypt,' and

227

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903-1909

knew that, so far as intimate acquaintance with Arab
authorities went, he had nothing to fear from anyone. And,
in due course, he turned the tables upon all Europe, by
proving that it was they who had not gone to the original
sources, but had all trusted to an imperfect French summary.

The Berlin Museum, I remember, sent a long refutation
of Dr. Butler's \iews. I earned their gratitude by keeping
it back, until they had seen Ms quite conclusive defence and
were glad to withdraw from the fray. It was impossible not
to be impressed by the general interest in the arts which the
Germans then displayed. As their trade prospered and their
wealth increased, German collectors and students became
more and more numerous ; German critics already wielded
a sway that was world-wide, and altogether, from the cultural
point of view, Germany set an example which, at the time,
it was only human to envy.

Among others, this Egypto-Persian controversy excited
that remarkable connoisseur, Dr. F. R. Martin, who had left
the Swedish diplomatic service for the profession of collect
ing. The carpets, drawings, miniatures and ceramics of the
East, with pictures and bronzes now and then, were his
quarry; Ms province extended from Faenza to Pekin. He
was lie first, I think, to descry the artistic links which
connect Greece and Rome with primitive China, and was
quick to foresee the tracks which research and collecting
would afterwards follow. His foresight extended to politics.
I remember his dismay when Baron Aerenthal annexed
Bosnia and Herzegovina. c He is a very stupid man, and has
ruined his country. 3 Martin promptly set about finding a
place to which he could safely retire when the inevitable
European War began. Settling upon Florence, he purchased
a villa there, in which he lived more or less undisturbed until
peace came. Then he made his great mistake. He backed
the old Italian constitution against the Fascists, a course
which led, very naturally, to endless trouble, aggravated
later by a ruinous confidence in Kreuger the financier, and
by a breakdown in health. His death some two years ago

228

1903-1909] THE * BURLINGTON MAGAZINE*

in a Viennese hospital was unnoticed by a world suffering
more formidable losses^ but Ms name will survive not only
in die Museum at Faenza, but in Ms splendid publications^
which all Orientalists know. Since Martin had met many
of the personages of Ms time, Ms conversation was as en
lightening as his comings and goings were mysterious, his
handwriting indecipherable. Indeed, to lick one of Ms
articles into shape was a task which strained for the time being
the bonds of a valued friendsMp.

A discussion in the e Burlington 5 as to the nature and
origin of the cracks in the Sistine ceiling reminds me of
Mr. Bernard Shaw. As he happened to be in Rome when
the ceiling was under repair, it was arranged that he should
see the frescoes from the scaffolding erected for that purpose,
in company with Anatole France. To their surprise, the
visitors found that the scaffolding had to be reached from
outside, by a long series of ladders extending up to an
opening cut at the top of the immense chapel wall. Up the
ladders they toiled accordingly, stout Anatole France in
front, to find, when they attained the dizzy summit, that the
approach to the opening was by a single plank stretched
over the abyss. Anatole France hesitated a while, then he
bowed his head, crossed himself^ and took the passage at a
run. The descent, according to Kicketts 5 was hardly less
unexpected. 'Anatole France had to be carried down from
the scaffoldage; an Italian workman ran to Ms rescue,
seized Mm by the waist, and carried Mm down, upside down
like a baby. The thought of this contingency will probably
make me stay below, whilst Shannon inspects the frescoes
for the honour of British Art. 5

Fry and, more rarely, MacColl contributed not a little to
the "Burlington's 5 literary repute. Fry's phrase for Beards-
ley, "the Fra Angdico of Satanism/ could not easily be
bettered. Occasional writers, too, did excellent service in
giving variety to unadulterated scholarsMp. Among the
wittiest was undoubtedly Robbie Ross, but Ms allusive,,
incisive word-play is so often bound up with the people and

229

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903-1909

events of the moment that It may have little significance for
a later generation. Henry James I remember chiefly by the
shock he received on learning our rate of pay. His char
acteristic tribute to his friend Charles EKot Norton certainly
deserved a more substantial reward than we could afford
to give him for it. But the very finest of all these contribu
tions, in my opinion, is the prose elegy by Ricketts on the
death of Conder, published in April 1909, No one could
have rendered more exquisitely the spirit of Conder's
enchanting, fragile decorations, 'the sense of wit and romance
which they evoke, the sense of luxury which they express,
and the love for beautiful things which pass away, like
laughter and music, the mirage of noon, the magic of the
night, the perfume of flowers and youth and life.'

The bust of Flora y afterwards so famous, swam into my
ken quite innocently in a South Kensington flat. I could
not for one moment accept Leonardo's authorship, as the
owner, Mr. Murray Marks, would have liked me to do. Not
only was the wax, at that time, most unconvincing in colour
and texture, being wholly different from such cinquecento
waxes as I had examined, but the front view was much
heavier than Leonardo's virginal faces, the hair on one side
descended in curls that were oddly Victorian. But we
happened at the moment to be publishing an .article upon
the various c Flora ' pictures produced by Leonardo's Milan
ese following, so that the bust, being clearly connected in
some way with these Milanese derivatives, merited publica
tion among them. I therefore got photographs from the
owner a mentioning the bust in a short appendix to the
article, in words which I judged to be innocuous, both to
the owner's claims and to the reputation of the magazine
or common sense, and then forgot the whole business.

The news that Bode had bought the Flora for Berlin, as a
genuine work by Leonardo, came like a thunderbolt, and I
was dismayed to find, when re-reading my hasty note upon
the bust, that I had been rather too clever. What I had
intended for polite scepticism might easily be mistaken for

230

1903-1909] THE 'BURLINGTON MAGAZINE'

a confession of faith. The finding of a photograph of the
bust, taken long before in the studio of Richard Cockle
Lucas, and of the Leonardesque picture in the Morrison
Collection with which it w T as connected; the solemn f prob
ing of the statue J at Berlin, and the extraction of die Veste *
from its interior, had long been things of the past when I
found myself, between Bode and Friedlander, right up
against the Flora once more, on a specially conducted tour
round the Kaiser-Friedrichs-Museum. In her neat glass
case she was almost unrecognizable. Her complexion was
all that an artist could desire, her features had grown
refined, her curls had now a permanent wave that was
almost Hellenic. She had in fact become a thing of un
questionable beauty, and there was no need to drag in
Leonardo's name when saying so.

The decision and foresight displayed by the Berlin Museum
at this time made a striking contrast to the haphazard ways
of the National Gallery. Two incidents in 1909 confirmed
this difference. The first had its comic aspect. Going round
Willis's Rooms one day, rather hurriedly, I noticed a little
painting, so capable, and so close to Rembrandt, that I
marked it in my catalogue. At the door I met my friend
Arthur Clifton, the head of the Carfax business, who asked
me in his rather languid w*ay whether there was anything
worth looking at. 'You should get number so and so * was
the reply. Clifton entered, looked at the picture, did not
care for it, but, having regard for my advice, sent the
faithful Jack Stepney to bid for it up to nine guineas. At
nine guineas and a half it was secured by Messrs. Richardson,
found to be signed and dated 1627, an ^ therefore one of the
earliest known works by Rembrandt. Without dreaming of
giving Trafalgar Square the first refusal of their treasure, its
new owners carried it off straight to Berlin, where I believe
they got some 1500 for it.

And one could not blame them. On two occasions, at
least, we had got owners to offer particularly beautiful and
desirable works, to the Nation, only to have them * turned

231

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903-1909

down 3 without so much as a s Thank you. 8 It was an open
secret also that the Trustees had just agreed to buy for
7000 a Tilippo LIppi/ when It proved to be a modem
forgery, of such dubious value that the owner never took the
trouble to reclaim it. Even those who disapproved most
strongly of Mr. de Rothschild's obstructive ways could not
deny that on this occasion he did the Gallery a real service.

The strangling of National Gallery initiative seemed to us
to have begun with the famous Minute of Lord Rosebery,
inspired, it is said, by Mr. Alfred de Rothschild's differences
with Sir Frederick Burton, who In his last years had become
something of an autocrat. By this Minute the Director's
powers were made so dependent upon the opinion of the
Board for the time being, that no definite policy of purchase,
or for arresting the unhappy exodus of works of art from
England, could either be formulated or maintained. We
had lost all faith in Governments ; ( Lord Rosebery made the
bad beginning, Lord Salisbury and Mr. Balfour blessed It
with the approval of inaction; things have been reduced to
a farce by Mr. Asquith. 5 And when we had done a little to
rouse public feeling, we could not rely upon that feeling
being directed by common sense. For example, it was
solemnly suggested that the best remedy would be a Register
of all the Important works of art In private possession, In
serene forgetfulness of the fact that such a Register, without
any provision for protecting Its contents, would be a godsend
to exporters. We had to conclude that "the best safeguard
for our national Philistinism Is our national Ignorance.' It
Is only fair to add that Fry in New York, under a different
constitution, was also meeting with serious difficulties, from
Trustees as anxious to retain good pictures for themselves
as ours apparently were to see them sold, of course for the
highest obtainable price, to other countries.

The sensation caused by the case of the famous 'Norfolk'
Holbeln s Christina, Duchess of Milan, reinforced this criticism
of current methods. The saving of the picture for England,
literally at the very last moment, by a magnificent anony-

232

1903-1909] THE 'BURLINGTON MAGAZINE'

mous gift from a lady, a large part, I believe, of her entire

fortune, was a piece of luck which the Nation was not likely
to experience a second time. So once more we pressed for
the adoption of a definite public policy, the provision of
a lump sum sufficient to safeguard a few of the supremely
Important pictures in private possession, completely for
getting that the owners of such pictures were not likely to
welcome any restriction whatever upon their freedom to
sell. I learned this later, to my cost. At the moment the
feelings of a few great persons did not seem to matter
compared with the national interest.

The reorganization of South Kensington Museum, on the
lines (doubtless logical, but rather inhuman) laid down by
the Committee of Inquiry and the Board of Education, was
another question of the moment. It seemed as if a great
opportunity for the aesthetic selection and presentation of
exhibits was being missed, and a great architectural oppor
tunity too. However, as we noticed at the time, the new
building being erected in the midst of the Natural History
Museum, the Imperial Institute, the Albert Memorial and
Harrod's Stores, had the merit of being in harmony with
them all.

The aim of these long-forgotten criticisms was wholly
impersonal and constructive. Only by a steady refrain of
sensible comment did it seem possible to attract the public
attention, and 10 stir it to practical activity. And in time
this came about. Aided by the more constant and authori
tative pronouncements of Claude PMlHps, usually echoed
by the rest of the Press, a general feeling grew up that some
thing really ought to be done. The feeling reached even to
Whitehall and Downing Street, and suggested lines of policy
to those working with the National Art-Collections Fund.
A double-edged compliment from MacColl, an acknow
ledged master of critical tactics, gave us some amusement.
5 You have arrived at a pitch of art in conveying the impres
sion of a non-existent public demand as a solid and dangerous
force, that must be the envy of lesser practitioners. 9

233

SELF AND PARTNERS [1903-1909

By the summer of 1909 the 'Burlington 7 was actually
paying its expenses. We were no longer dependents, and
were ready, if necessary, to tilt against all the windmills in
the world, when I was unexpectedly called away from
Editorship to a very different field of action. Before I can
come to that, certain other experiences must be mentioned.

234

CHAPTER XIV
THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

(1904-1910)

Slade Professor at Oxford and member of the New English Art
Club; Sargent; Slckert; the International Society; pictures
and lectures; my Oxford audience; honorary degrees; the
Ashmolean Museum ; disputes and discoveries ; Lord Curzon
and MX. Balfour; Naples, Rome and Florence; painting at
Ladbroke Grove ; Littlehampton ; experiments in water-colour
and oils ; the house flooded ; entertainments ; my wife's music.

MAcCoLL's appointment to Millbank was recognized by all
of us as being no more than Ms bare deserts. A little earlier
I had received an appointment which could not be so
described. In April 1904, my friend Dr. Butler of Brasenose
told me that the Slade Chair would be vacant in July, and
that a new Professor would be elected in the October term.
If you don't stand, you might bring the thing to the notice
of the right people. 3 Binyon naturally occurred to me.
But he hesitated, owing to his museum work and his poetry.
I've no doubt I could do it : but I have to think of my
poetry, which (rightly or wrongly) comes first in my scheme
of life. Were it not for this I should have no hesitation. I
should enjoy the work very much, and I am proud that they
should want me to try. 3 Fry (by rumour) , Lionel Gust,
T. G. Jackson, R.A., and Baldwin Brown, were other
potential candidates, but all held back from unwillingness
to oppose the existing Professor, H. E. Wooldridge, who
hoped for re-election, with no prospect of it. The field thus
remained fairly open, and in the autumn, since no friend
of mine was standing, I sent in my name. Maunde Thomp
son, Sidney Colvin and Vernon Rendall provided testi
monials, Kendall's being a little masterpiece. Butler, know
ing his fellow-electors, advised me to offer eighteen lectures

235

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

Instead of the statutory twelve, and to undertake to reside
In Oxford during Term-time. The former was easy; the
latter neither appealed to my wife nor suited my Burlington 3
work, so was met by compromise. Thanks to Butler's good
counsel and indefatigable backing, I was elected on
November 30th 1904.

la the Januaiy following, I had the additional honour of
being elected, with Sargent, to membership of the New
English Art Club. Sargent I never really knew. His world
was almost as far above mine as were his unusual gifts of
hand and eye, and he showed, I thought, to the greatest
advantage on the one occasion when, in the cause of friend
ship, he exposed Ms disabilities. Having taken the chair at
a dinner given to Steer, It was Sargent's duty to make a
speech. He rose, blushing and stuttering, amid loud cheers.
There was a long pause, and at last he got out the word
e Gentlemen. 5 Another long pause, more blushing and more
cheering. e l wish,' another long embarrassed pause, e to
convey to Steer ' Here Sargent stuck, going nearly black
In the face, while aE continued to applaud. At last, almost
bursting with the colossal effort, he rapped out, e this
token of my inarticulate admiration,' and sat down. The
most eloquent of orators could not have paid so convincing
a tribute.

Later In the evening there was a general cry for Walter
SIckert. That whimsical genius, who had at one time acted
"with Irving, got up from Ms chair and promptly gave us
part of ' Hamlet/ Act I, Scene n, as it might be performed
by a travelling company. Assuming, like Brandram, the
various parts in turn, he rendered them with a satire as
delightful as the older man's convincing truth. His Queen,
a pathetic creature, slightly uncertain about her aspirates,
made a perfect foil to the ranting King, who marched her
off with ludicrous pomp when, with 'the cannon to the
clou-ouds/ he reached Ms exit and his top-note.

One of the most sumptuous dinners of the period was
given at the New Gallery by the International Society of

236

1904-1910] THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

Painters,, Sculptors and Engravers, In honour of their Presi
dent, Rodin. The great sculptor, by the way, with his long
beard and aquiline nose, looked as if he might have been a
peasant half-brother to Leopold, King of the Belgians.
Placed between Shannon and Hugh Lane, ever lively and
adroit, I enjoyed myself thoroughly, but the splendour of the
entertainment, in striking contrast to the tweed-suit habits
of the New English Art Club, and of * Independent * painters
in general, may have diverted others besides myself. When
Prince Troubetskoi returned thanks for c The Guests ' in an
admirable speech, one sentence of it, which was greeted
with loud applause, stuck pleasantly in my memory: C I
came over to London this evening expecting to find myself
in a company of artists : I find myself in a company of
gentlemen. 5 The portrait-painter, of course, has to play up
to Ms public with these social displays. But how Whistler,
the Society's first President, would have crackled and
chuckled over that distinction !

Shannon and Ricketts wished me to join them in the Inter
national. The New EngHsh, however, was good enough for
me. Gratitude and admiration alike inspired loyalty. The
Club had accepted my first obscure exhibits ; its tiny funds
were handled with such wise economy that it was always on
the brink of a crisis yet never in debt ; sturdy, smiling Francis
Bate ruled its affairs and its members like a tactful dictator ;
its constitution was that rare thing, a practical democracy,
a proof that such a form of government can work, where the
citizens are all approximately equal and all intelligent.

Over my exhibits I will pass as quickly as I can ; most of
them were painted from my sketches in Switzerland. The
Myten (November 1903), an oblong essay in blue, was ulti
mately bought by Charles Rothenstein, after an apprentice
ship in Carfax's Ryder Street window. The Portsmouth Road^
already mentioned, was shown in May 1904, and with it a
Meiringen^ since destroyed. The Schreckhorn and Finsteraarhorn
(November 1904) was one of my favourites; Ricketts also
liked it, but it found no purchaser. In 1905 the demolition

237

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

of the Egyptian Hall left the New English without a home.
The little Dudley Gallery had served them well, and the
substitutes were but makeshifts In comparison; at least
neither the Royal Institution, Liverpool, to which I sent
four pictures, nor the Alpine Club Gallery, to which I
sent two, produced any sales.

The Alpine Club pair represented scenes on the Gower
Coast and at Bude 3 from sketches made in 1904 and 1905.
On our visit to Bude in August 1905, we were accompanied
by our elder son Martin, born the preceding May. Bude in
my childhood had seemed a pleasant appendage to my
father's parish of Stratton. Stratton was now the append
age; its fine church being a show-place for tourists from
fashionable Bude. When we were not paying visits, we
fished for dace in the rather picturesque canal, a sport at
which my wife became an adept, and I tried to catch bass
at the end of the breakwater. The too rare excitement of
playing a fish in the breakers, and landing him somehow
among the slippery rocks, was enough to atone for many
blank days. If the bass generally disappointed, certain
mullet invariably maddened. A shoal, big and apparently-
unsuspicious, was always cruising over a pool in the little
estuary, gobbling at an invisible something, yet always dis
daining the tiniest of baits and trout flies. In despair, I got
up very early one morning. Sure enough there came a bite
and a strong fish on the hook which ultimately revealed
himself as a thick, dark two-pound eel. No mullet was ever
deceived.

My Oxford Professorship, so materially convenient in
view of the increase in my family, filled me with terror as
the time drew near for delivering the Inaugural Address.
I had never given a lecture, and since my undergraduate
days had never heard one. So when, at last, I was marched
in state between the Principal of Brasenose and Dr. Butler
to the scene of my trial, I quaked like a fraudulent criminal
on the point of being found out. My fears came to a head
when I found myself alone on a platform (I have clean for-

238

1904-19*] THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

gotten what the building was), facing, as in an evil dream,
an immense hemi-cycle of University dignitaries, gowned
and solemn Inquisitors, all with their eyes upon me. Vox
faucibus haesit. I could pump up no more than a tremulous
whisper, and in that started reading to them my 'Practical
Work as an Aid to the Study of the Fine Arts,' every dull
sentence driving another nail into my coffin of shame. The
thing did contain a few poor grains of sense, but they were
buried under such slabs of pretentious commonplace, and
were anyhow so little calculated to please an audience
already pleased with itself, that the faint formal applause
when I stopped, and the atmosphere of failure in which we
trudged back to Brasenose, talking most carefully of other
matters, seemed quite appropriate.

My aim was to induce people to scrutinize actual works of
art, by collecting them, handling them, or trying to produce
them, instead of merely reading art-books and theorizing at
second-hand,, I began with a series of simple lectures on
sculpture, and was the better satisfied with my little flock of
some fifty 'regulars/ when I happened to take down a
volume of Ruskin from Sotheran's shelves, and opened upon
a letter in which he confessed that, for all his reputed
influence, his nucleus of attentive hearers was no larger
than mine.

In the summer term of 1905, a series of lectures on
* Colour* started the inquiry which, resulted in ; Notes on
the Science of Picture-Making ' (1909). The book was very
kindly received, and was dedicated to the four friends,
Ricketts, Binyon, Fry and Dr. Butler, who by introducing
me successively to Painting, to Writing, to the Burlington
Magazine/ and to the Slade Professorship, had given me
my chance in life. Rembrandt's Etchings, my next subject,
suggested thoughts on the best way of training an artist.
After appearing in the 'Burlington/ these lectures also were
worked up into a book, a rather unsuccessful one this time,
'Notes on the Art of Rembrandt. 3 For this, as for an invalid
child, I have a peculiar affection.

239

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

What secret strings connect the brain with the tongue?
Why does a man speak on one occasion with force and
fluency, while on another, equally well prepared for, he
becomes a stammering dullard? Fatigue is not fatal, any
more than alcohol is an unfailing remedy. Once, after three
exasperating hours at one of the interminable meetings at
the Ashmolean, I Jiad to leave the others still disputing, and
go straight up, thoroughly tired out, to deliver a lecture for
a fourth hour. To my surprise, and still more, no doubt, to
that of my Slade audience, I found myself speaking with an
ease and vigour which I never again attained but once (and
that was after a civic luncheon !), every sentence coming out,
pat and grammatical, without the least conscious effort.
Perhaps because they are sub-conscious, such moods are
easily interrupted. For example, while enlisting support for
the c Rokeby Velazquez,' 1 found my eloquence received
with perplexity, followed by such broad grins on the up
turned faces below me that I had to look back at the screen.
My nice new slide of the picture, specially made for the
occasion, was shrivelling up in the heat of the lantern, and
Venus had become anything but an object of desire. The
thread of my speech was destroyed at the same time ; I
could only laugh and stop talking.

Among the seniors in my audience, our old family friend,
Dr. James, the President of St. John's, with Mrs. Daniel and
Mrs. Famell, are those I remember best. Among my under
graduate acquaintances, Paul Methuen and R. M. Gleadowe
had the greatest natural talent for drawing; W. Ormsby-
Gk>re, afterwards to be a Seraph Abdiel at Trafalgar Square,
was the leader of a group of keen students from New College,
including Geoffrey Whitworth, A. K. Cook and A. B. Lloyd-
Baker ; R. H. Wilenski of Balliol, then as now, took a line
of his own.

Had not politics claimed him, Ormsby-Gore would have
made his mark in the art world. Already he had travelled
much, seen much, and remembered much. As quick to
assimilate as to admire, his knowledge and intelligence were

240

1904-1910] THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

considerably above even our modern museum-entrance
standard. When he took up Art as a special subject for
'Greats 5 he was the first undergraduate, I believe, to do
so he was awarded only a second class, to my very great
surprise. Only years later did I learn the reason. To save
the cost of a special examiner for a single candidate, the
University entrusted the business to one of its most learned
and distinguished members. That conscientious scholar,
when reading up the subject, happened to light upon
Bode's Leonardo- Verrocchio heresy, and took it for gospel.
Ormsby-Gore, in consequence, was judged to be incorrect
for giving the orthodox view of a period which, as I knew,
he had studied with particular attention. He was also the
first person whom I met possessing the courage and inde
pendence 10 admire the Baroque. Overwhelmed by the
Tiepolo decorations at Wiirzburg, he contemplated a work
upon that artist in which he might have anticipated some,
at least, of the ideas with which Wolfflin has since made us
familiar.

At first, being still a Brasenose undergraduate, I lectured
gownless; but from the end of 1907, when the Degree of
Hon. M.A. was conferred on me, I could don academic
costume. A. D. Godley, the Public Orator, presented me
for the Degree. Talking with Mm after the ceremony, I
happened to ask if there was anything to pay. 'The Uni
versity has sunk low, 5 was the reply, c but it has not yet sunk
to charging for Honorary Degrees.' He was optimistic. A
few days later the Registrar politely requested i 7, explain
ing that even the Kaiser, much to Ms surprise and indigna
tion, had been charged for Ms Doctorate. I paid up more
meekly, but the protests made by others on the occasion led,
I believe, to the charge being abandoned.

Some time later I tried very hard to get the University to
honour Mr. W. H. James Weale, whose great learning and
independence of character had earned international respect.
Fate owed him some recompense. Too honest evidence,
given before the Committee of Inquiry into the administra-

241

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

tion of South Kensington Museum, had led to his dismissal
by the authorities from the Library which he had developed
into the finest thing of its kind. Thrown upon the world,
he had made a name known to all Europe as the pioneer
of research in Early Flemish Painting. Now he was old,
poor and nearly blind. But the Vice- Chancellor was
dubious. Honorary Degrees ' were for men of higher
station.' I thought that Oxford might occasionally recog
nize learning. A London museum authority was consulted,
who (Heaven forgive him!) described Mr. Weale as 'merely
a crabbed old scholar. 5 'Well, you see! 3 . . . was the Vice-
Chancellor's attitude when he showed me the letter. I had
expected better things of them both, and fear that I said
so. It was the single favour I had asked during my double
term of office, and my soreness only subsided at the sight
of the caricature by Max, s of Lord Curzon conferring
Honorary Degrees upon a delightfully mixed group of
popular favourites, including Little Tich.

Brasenose, though its interests were not generally associ
ated with the Fine Arts, had given me the welcome of the
returned Prodigal. For A. J. Jenkinson, with whom I
breakfasted every week, I quickly conceived a warm affection.
His sincerity, Ms powder of grasping the essentials of every
thing from profound philosophy to University finance, his
cautious good sense and quiet humour, rendered him
stimulating company, and were obtaining for him a high
place among Oxford statesmen, when all was ended by a
cKmbing accident.

The Ashmolean Museum, under Dr. Arthur Evans, had
been transformed from an enchanting junk shop into a
most important and up-to-date institution. That masterful
archaeologist, its second founder, naturally anxious to
establish it firmly, and unable to get either the space he
required, or any adequate grant, from an impoverished
University Chest, sought to effect some part of his purpose
by an amalgamation with the University Picture Galleries.
His plan, no less naturally, failed to appeal either to the

242

1904-19*0] THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

Visitors of the Galleries, the body which had long controlled
the best part of the Taylorian building, or to me when, as an
appendix, the making of the Slade Professorship into a
permanency, coupled with keepership of the Picture Gal
leries, was included. Being convinced, against rny own
immediate interest and the claims of gratitude, that per
manency in Art Professorships was a thoroughly bad thing,
leading always to sterility in the Professor and to indifference
in his hearers,, I had to resist the proposal, to displease some
of my best friends, and, incidentally, to be called a liar at one
of the critical meetings. That was not the last of these
academic amenities. At a subsequent meeting I felt bound
to vote in favour of another section of Dr. Evans's proposals,
and, as I left, a furious member of what had previously been
my own party hissed in my ear, 'You have betrayed Ruskin. 3

I was consulted, about the same time, as to what could be
done to save the damaged Pre-Raphaelite paintings in the
Library of the Oxford Union Society. Their condition
seemed to rne desperate, and beyond aid from any process
of restoration which was then available. Now, it is hoped
that the skill and experience of Professor Tristram will be
able to repair, at least in part, the fading and disintegration
due to the insufficiency of the original ground. At the time
I could only suggest the making of a record by photography.
This was most ably done by Mr. W. E. Gray, and the results
published by the University Press, with an account of the
paintings by Holman Hunt. When I looked up the book
just now, I found that a Press cutting had slipped into it, a
column of rebuke to me, in an evening paper of 1908, for
having written to the c Times 5 in favour of tolerance for
Epstein's statues on the British Medical Building. It was an
odd coincidence, since Epstein's statues and the Union
paintings are at this very time (May 1935) once more
occupying public attention together.

The University Galleries, then, were pleasant, but very
much smaller than they are now. Having no special room
for receiving undergraduates, when they came for advice or

243

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

informal teaching, I prowled about as chance led me. One
day I discovered a tiny lumber-room, and rummaging there,
on the floor, among the dusty cast-offs, I lighted upon quite
a little group of panels by Van Dyck and Rubens, and a
picture by Wilson, all of which were duly placed on exhibi
tion. It was pleasant to be in a place where such finds might
still be made.

Another day I happened to be with Sidney Colvin, as he
was going through the last batch of drawings for his great
publication on the collections at Oxford. Under them lay
a huge brown-paper parcel of things rejected by everyone.
Colvin did not want it, so I untied the string and turned over
the scraps. The majority deserved their fate : but the find
ing of one interesting cartoon encouraged me to persevere.
Suddenly there came to light a ferocious Head of a Warrior.,
which almost took my breath away. The head was plainly
that of the central figure in The Battle oJAnghiari by Leonardo
da Vinci ; moreover, though considerably retouched, it was
from the master's own hand. Colvin at first pooh-poohed it,
being more than doubtful of Its authenticity, but by the time
he published it, the drawing was recognized as being,
probably, the single fragment of Leonardo's famous cartoon
that has survived contemporary admiration.

Lord Curzon's appointment to the Chancellorship pro
vided Oxford with several mild excitements and one or two
stately dinners. Mr. Arthur Balfour also came down for a
day to deliver his Romanes lecture on Criticism and Beauty *
in the Sheldonian. I listened with growing bewilderment,
till my neighbour, Jenkinson, whispered 'This is all straight
out of your book 3 (The Science of Picture-Making) . Lunch
in Magdalen was to follow. On the way thither Lord
Curzon passed me, as was perhaps natural at such a time,
without a sign of recognition. When I came into Magdalen
Hall, the President advanced from the group of great ones
standing by the fireplace, to tell me that Mr. Balfour wished
to make my acquaintance. 'You will know,' said Mr. Bal
four, on my introduction, * where most of that lecture came

244

1904-1910] THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

from.* Then Lord Curzon, seeing us laughing and talking
together, bore down beaming, with hand outstretched, greet
ing me by name as if I was an old and valued friend.
Mr. Balfour afterwards sent me a copy of his lecture ; it had
been almost entirely rewritten.

He seemed to prefer raising difficulties to finding,^ or
approving, any practical solution for them. Were it not for
that Irish Secretaryship one might think of him, with all his
intellect and charm of manner, as an ineffectual angel. Did
the energy and courage which ie then displayed exhaust
prematurely such capacity for action as he possessed? There
must have been some strain of weakness in him, or he could
not, w r hen John's name was proposed to him for painting his
portrait, have hesitated between that master, then at the
climax of his early power., and Lady Granby.

At the end of 1907 I was unanimously re-elected Professor
for "a further term of three years, in accordance with the
general custom, Lionel Oust being, I believe, the only rival
candidate. The latter part of my time was chiefly occupied
by a series of lectures on Raphael, as illustrated by the
wonderful group of his drawings in the University Galleries.
I had hoped to follow them by a similar series on Michel
angelo, but had only time for an introductory lecture on
that artist before other interests claimed me. Michelangelo
proved, however, so popular a subject, that my lecture-room
and all the space outside was crammed, until people had to
be turned away from the entrance-door; an experience
as unexpected as unique.

My last series dealt with 'Heredity in Royal Portraits,' to
me, at least, a fascinating sidelight on Mendelism. The
lectures were afterwards repeated at the Royal Institution.
It was proving, however, more and more difficult to reconcile
my duties as Professor with the claims of the work I was now
undertaking at the National Portrait Gallery, so I decided to
retire before the end of my second term of office. It was,
perhaps, well that I did so, for at the moment I must have
said all that I could say with any freshness. Indeed, when

245

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

deKvering my valedictory lecture I nearly fell asleep on the

platform. Waking myself with an effort, I wound up some
how, twenty-five minutes before the customary closing-time.

While planning the lectures on Raphael and Michelangelo,
it was necessary to see Italy once more. Thither accordingly
I went in April 1906; first to stately Turin, and thence by
Genoa southwards. The fever-haunted Tuscan Maremma
with its bays and capes, and names like Talamone recalling
its early Greek invaders, looked enchanting in the morning
sunshine ; then came the grassy swells and ruined aqueducts
of the Campagna and the dome of S. Peter's beyond them.
The Vatican far exceeded expectation. Nothing had pre
pared me for the superb colour of the Sistine ceiling as
unique in its calculated, stimulating restraint as the godlike
forms with which it is allied. Nothing had prepared me for
the vigour and variety of Raphael, conquering one immense
field of design after another. It was long before I could
reconcile the noble decorator of the Stanze with the painter
of over-sweet Madonnas and sentimental saints, nor did the
reconciliation, if I may judge by the present sales of my little
book on Raphael, satisfy many people except myself.

From these great impressions, and from the Forum, then
but partially excavated by Boni, I had to tear myself in order
to fit in a visit to Naples. The mountains of the Abrazzi,
storm-swept and snow-flecked, great ruined castles by the
wayside, and a meal with the most delicious Orvieto wine,
unobtainable, alas ! in England, passed the time delightfully
until the great pointed cone of Vesuvius appeared. Sud
denly one little puff of black smoke sailed up from the
summit, exciting the group of gold-braided officers in the
carriage with me. Such things prefaced an eruption. That
night the cone was marked by a dull red smear, high up in
the sky. Next morning I woke in a drift of gray volcanic
dust. Looking from above over the long city and the curve
of the bay, one could see the mountain as a vast gray
silhouette, from which huge volumes of dark smoke were
pumping up, impelled by a pressure so obviously terrific as

246

igo4-i9 I0 l THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

to suggest the possibility at any moment of some catastrophic
explosion. Far above the mountain the smoke spread out
into a great canopy, and in the shadow of that canopy I set
about seeing the sights; the famous Aquarium with its
harsh, much-vaunted decorations by Hans von Marees, the
untidy Picture Gallery with its fine, desiccated Titians, its
wonderful Brueghel, and, above all, the Museum with its
treasures of sculpture and decoration from Herculaneum.
If the bust known as Plato showed what bronze could become
in the hands of a consummate artist, the beauty of ordinary
Greco-Roman furniture and household utensils proved that
the first century w r as not inferior to the eighteenth in crafts
manship and the amenities of life.

Can the printing-press, the one great invention unknown
to Imperial Rome, save us from a collapse like hers? Or is
it merely a culture-medium and carrier for the germs of
corruption? Even its appeal to man's reason provides him,
through science, with new means of self-annihilation : its
appeal to his vanities and passions makes that end not
infrequently seem the best thing for all concerned. But why
this moralizing? It's a case of mentem et mortalia tangunt, I
suppose. When, as an undergraduate, I was wandering
with Cripps about the old Ashmolean Museum, Pater
happened to come up to us with Dr. Bussell. I had been
amused by a Roman child's toy, a bird on wheels, and
ventured to say so. 'These things always make me rather
sad, 3 answered Pater, and moved on.

The other sights of Naples included a magnificent spec
tacle of the cloud-capped volcano, seen across the Bay from
Posilipo, and aflame with sunset fires. Turner doubtless
would have transformed such a subject into a pictorial
harmony; my repeated attempts were quite horrible. It
was now time for Pompeii. But I had delayed too long in
Naples ; the railway was damaged, and Pompeii had become
forbidden ground. Only Avernus and the Bay of Baiae
remained.

Under the canopy of ashes, a strong wind made Naples so

247

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

cold that a top-coat was a comfort. As the train drew
towards Baia, I copied my fellow-travellers by emptying out
of my boots the gray dust which had penetrated into them,
as into all one's other belongings. Brown or, more often,
bright yellow boots, with a dark suit, top-coat, and black
bowler, were the local fashion; by Imitating it I passed
unchallenged through the cloud of mendicants, touts,
'guides 5 and parasites which buzzed round the station exit
at Baia to settle upon the tourists. Here we were outside the
shadow of the eruption ; the thunderous grays and blues of
Vesuvius were far behind us; the slopes towards the bay
with their ancient overgrown ruins, immortalized by Wilson
and Turner, looked enchanting in the pallid sunshine. As I
marched along towards Cumae, sketching, the sun grew
hotter and hotter, and long before I reached Avernus on my
way back I regretted my top-coat, and looked about in vain
for some conveyance. Avernus with its vineyards, its neat
stone coping and clear brown water, dimpled apparently by
small fish, was anything but the deadly lake of tradition,
though Its cliff rampart was noble enough. Hot and foot
sore., I skipped the Solfatara, making for Posilipo and the
nearest tavern to order half a litre of red wine. 'Una
cinquanta, 3 said the smiling padrona as she passed me the
glass. I smiled, shook my head, went out, and was well into
the road before there came a rush behind me and e Venti-
cinque, Signer. * Sitting over my wine, I could contemplate
at Lucretian ease three very nicely dressed English tourists,
being followed, each to his furious embarrassment, by a
regular queue of pressing, gabbling mendicants, and thank
God for my brown boots.

The next morning broke in a downpour of gray mud
ashes mixed with rain which darkened the sky and left a
thick deposit on every person and every window-pane.
There was nothing for it but to get back to Rome, where my
friend Cripps was to join me. Outside Naples, the upper
most curve of Vesuvius still showed faintly through the
Dantesque murk for a few moments; then it was over-

248

1904-1910] THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

whelmed, remaining invisible, I was told, for about a
fortnight. During that time mud and ashes rained upon
Naples till the deposit, some two feet thick, brought down
the roof of the market upon its unlucky inmates. When
Vesuvius was seen again, the ridge of Monte Somma had
become the summit. The former cone, six hundred feet
high, had all been blown away.

Cripps and I set to work on Roman antiquities, not, of
course, forgetting the pictures. When the main part of the
day's work was done, I made sketches on the Palatine and
elsewhere, though none of these proved as useful as the
Neapolitan studies made under more exciting conditions.
Others may be able to dispense with external stimuli to the
pictorial imagination, or to create substitutes for it in the
modern fashion. My old-fashioned engine has no self-starter,
and will only fire when it is wound up very sharply. Sud
denly I became unwell, more probably from overwork than
from the Roman climate, which I suspected at the time.
Shannon had had a similar experience there six weeks
earlier, when Ricketts wrote, e l tried to poison him with
strychnine, I gave him 8 times his proper dose.'

We fled to the hill air of Arezzo to recoup, and to admire
Piero della Francesca, amid dust and scaffolding, before
going on to Florence. Florence, since our previous visit, had
changed greatly. The Germans, now more numerous, more
prosperous, and more open-handed than English visitors,
had replaced them in popular favour. Barile's, starred in
Baedeker, and redecorated to suit its new clients, had
become cosmopolitan and commonplace. Even in our little
Italian locanda we found a German art-student with whom,
when his English and my German ran out, I discussed
Florentine Art in Latin. Home showed us over the bare,
newly purchased Palace which was to become his Museum.
Cripps's uncle, Colonel Young, produced the manuscript of
his book on the Medici, and a most welcome shoulder of
mutton at dinner. This afterwards earned for him a kindly
review of the book ; the single occasion on which I allowed

249

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

strict editorial justice to be mitigated by gratitude. Indeed
I was so tired by work on Bonatello, Verrocchio and Michel
angelo, not to mention other Florentine worthies, that
Italian food and wine had ceased to reinvigorate. That
memorable joint made a new man of me for the time being.
After revising and augmenting previous impressions at
Bologna and Milan, we travelled home, meeting Ormsby-
Gore en route. Night was falling when the train stopped
outside Lucerne for a few minutes in a snowy wilderness, as
desolate and impressive as a winter scene by Hokusai. Red
Ruin,, Lucerne., now in the Tate Gallery, was one of the
indirect results.

That summer (1906) the New English held the first of
several exhibitions in a little gallery tucked away among the
larger buildings of Bering Yard. Three phases of the
Vesuvius eruption figured there, and in the autumn I sent a
View on the Reuss> Lucerne, not badly painted, but too low in
tone for popularity. It had been sketched a few minutes
before the Red Ruin., which picture, with several others, I
brought to Bering Yard for the next exhibition in May 1907.
Steer happened to be in the gallery as I entered with them,
and on seeing the Red Ruin remarked, c That must have been
a pretty cold place. It makes me shiver to look at it. 5
Interpreting the words as a kindly criticism of the picture's
tone, I waited till Steer had gone, chartered a cab and took
the thing away. It was late on Saturday afternoon, and
Fred Winter, our kind and experienced secretary, assured
me that if I returned it quite early on Monday morning it
would not be too late for the Selecting Jury. Retouching
would do the picture no good; it was already too heavy.
It would have to be copied.

My painting-room at 73 Ladbroke Grove was a high front
room on the ground floor, with a large window facing north
east. Never before or since did I work in a light so trust
worthy. The little back-bedrooms wherein I usually paint,
where the canvas has to be close to the window and to be
lighted from the side, tend to flatter the painter, and the

250

THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

tones need much revision before they can hold their own in
any more direct and penetrating illumination. At Ladbroke
Grove no such revision was needed. What was wrong looked
wrong at once, so the work I did during our seven years'
residence there was, I believe, more consistently respectable
than at any other period of my life. Anyhow I found it
easy enough on that Sunday morning (my only time for
painting) to make a copy of the Red Ruin, the same size as
the original, using turpentine as a medium to help quick
drying. This copy went to Bering Yard, was subsequently
chosen by Robbie Ross for the Contemporary Art Society
and, under their patronage, passed into the Tate Gallery.
My wife, with her customary insight, preferred and claimed
the first version. This, when I see it at Appleby, appears to
have acquired a weight, a substance and a grimness which
the replica at Millbank does not possess.

Our summer holiday in 1906 was spent at Middleton,
Teesdale, where the sight of High Force, the grandest of
English waterfalls, and of the Bowes Museum, in its incom
plete state the oddest thing of its kind, with some indifferent
trout-fishing and an adventure with a salmon, were the only
memorable events. The fish was landed on trout tackle,
without a landing-net, but kicked himself out of my arms
and back into the river when I tried to climb up the rocks
with him. The next summer, when we took Martin and the
newly arrived Robin to Littlehampton, had one unexpected
result, connected neither with sight-seeing nor with sport.
I went fishing, of course. Experience at Bude had taught me,
I imagined, the ways of bass. So when I went down to the
river for the first time, at the proper state of the tide, with
the proper tackle and bait, I was not in the least surprised
to hook and land a five-pounder within ten minutes of nay
arrival. Filled with confidence I went down again and again,
but was never rewarded by another bite for five whole weeks.
Then I did catch a small bass, but only while fishing (in
vain, as usual) for mullet.

My solitary adventure during this barren time began with

251

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

the discovery of a conger eel In a pool at the end of the pier.
There followed his hooking with an improvised gaff just as
the tide rose round us both, his splashing quietus inflicted
with a stretcher borrowed from a passing boat, and then,
as finale, a laborious climb with him, other means of retreat
being cut off by the rising tide, from the sea to the top of the
pier head. As he weighed over six pounds he was no more
agreeable as a burden than he was when subsequently
cooked by our landlady.

If anglers as a class succeeded as rarely as I do, the
Johnsonian repute of the craft would be well deserved.
Personally I console myself with the belief that Providence
mulcts me in fish and other sporting quarry, as a 'set off'
against her generosity in things more important. When I
have consistent bad luck in fishing, I console myself by
thinking that good luck is coming elsewhere. Anyhow it is
a comfortable faith for a duffer, and I have never looked up
my fishing diaries to see what disasters have followed an
occasional red-letter day by the waterside.

The sequel I connect with my Littlehampton failures is an
odd one. The sheds and craft by the Arun provided plenty
of sketching material that was picturesque, but had little of
the "importance 3 which I thought necessary for an oil-
painting. On my return it occurred to me that drawings
from some of my sketches might be saleable when pictures
were not; but who was I to make any drawings up to the
standard of the New English and its Slade School virtuosi?
My natural preference was for a pen-and-wash method,
corresponding more or less to the pencil-drawings I made
from nature when they had been 'fixed 5 afterwards with
water-colour. There, however, the way was barred by
Muirhead Bone and others. Anything which I tried would
only seem a feeble imitation of much better men.

Turning to the manuscript embryo of my 'Science of
Picture-Making, 3 I sought for guidance there, as I still do
sometimes. A series of experiments followed which lasted
two or three months. After treating the same or similar

252

i 9 04-i9 I0 3 THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

subjects with every variety of material and method, I came
to a definite conclusion. Black chalk upon white paper
could provide a firm foundation for almost any type of
design. Washes of colour, if tactfully added, would not only
clothe the nakedness of this beginning, but would them
selves acquire a certain c muted purity/ as a critic once put
it, from the grains of chalk incorporated with them in the
process. This chalk s presumably from containing much
carbon, had a tendency, I found afterwards, to absorb a little
of the more delicate colouring matter, so that some of my
earlier drawings are now more skeletal than at their first
appearance. I allowed for this tendency later by reinforcing
the colour schemes.

The first products of all this labour were shown at Dowdes-
welTs in the winter of 1907, and at the New English in the
spring of 1908. Naturally they were overwhelmed by the
work of men like Steer and John, then near the summit of
their power. Nor can I find that the drawings attracted
particular notice when Carfax gave me my first c one man
show 5 in January 1909, although they numbered eighteen
out of twenty-eight exhibits, and I sold several of them. One
of the oil-paintings was the Biasca, now at Manchester;
another. The Power Station (1907), was my first elaborate effort
at an Industrial subject. A third picture. High Cup Nick
from Applebys had a queer technical history. Somebody
persuaded me to try a new petroleum medium warranted
to be perfection a German compound, I think. And per
fection it was, so far as ease of execution went. High Cup
Mick was begun and finished, with unusual brilliancy of
effect, in a single Sunday morning. After lunch I strolled
in to admire it, and found to my disgust that the master
piece was already a network of small but steadily expanding
cracks. There was nothing for it but to repaint the whole
picture at once with linseed oil. The brightness was some
what dulled, but the surface was sound, and remained so.

Linseed oil reminds me of another experience. Rougemont,
an exhibit at the New English in the spring of 1908, was

253

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

painted from a landscape which appeared to me in a vivid
dream, and which I contrived to memorize before waking.
I happened at the time to be studying the tradition of the
brothers Van Eyck, and wondered if their famous medium
had not been simply good linseed oil. Having a smooth
canvas, prepared with thick flake white,, as a substitute for
a fifteenth-century panel, I painted my dream-picture upon
it with a small sable brush. Contrary to expectation, the
method proved exceedingly rapid. It was quite easy to
draw innumerable mountains, rocks, and fir-trees with the
fine point; indeed I fancy that 'old 5 Brueghel may have
used some such method, since the quality obtained had some
resemblance to his. The picture dried with just the smooth
glassy surface I had hoped for, and held its own quite
respectably at the New English. After the show I put it
aside to wait for varnishing. But when I pulled it out from
a stack of such things a twelvemonth later, I found that the
film of paint had remained comparatively soft ; every little
rub and scratch had penetrated to the white ground. In
despair of mending the damages, I cleaned the whole picture
off, and painted something else, I forget what, upon the
canvas.

In spite of a rather formidable exterior, the house at
73 Ladbroke Grove, to which we moved in 1907 before the
birth of my second son Robin, had some attractive features.
The lofty hall, and the stairs, far too many for comfort and
too steep at the turns for safety, were wonderfully light and
spacious. The dining-room windows opened upon a broad
terrace, and thence a flight of steps led down to a large
garden, which the community allowed to run wild without
becoming squalid. The prospect from the upper windows
included the spires of Richmond and of Harrow; of the
merits of the painting-room I have spoken already. We did
not, of course, escape the usual domestic troubles. It was
infiiriating to be served with black coffee (and to drink it 5
alas!), after a slipshod Italian manservant had wiped the
cups with paraffin. It was still more annoying to find myself

254

1904-1910] THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

pushing and carrying a big, smiling, tipsy cook up four long
flights of stairs, at the very hour when I ought to have
been sitting in comfort at the dinner given in honour of
Robbie Ross. Yet a pleasant memory of that staircase
remains; Two furniture men had struggled in vain upon it
with an oak wardrobe, which finally fell from them and
knocked a big hole in the wall. Our young Swedish man
servant, Erik, could contain himself no longer. He had the
whole wardrobe hoisted on to his back and walked up with
it easily and unaided. No wonder the soldiers of Charles
XII carried all before them !

The most notable catastrophe occurred while we were
staying at Cambridge with Professor and Mrs. Seward, for a
lecture which I was to deliver. In the middle of it, I was
aware of a telegram brought into the lecture-room and
passed up to my wife. She turned white as she read it, but
remained in her seat until I had managed to wind up
my discourse. The message, c House flooded children safe
Elizabeth, 3 appeared quite incomprehensible. We hastened
back anxiously to a dwelling which, standing high upon the
very summit of a considerable hill, seemed safe from any
flood that had not also iiivolved the whole Thames valley.

What had really happened proved to be as simple as it
was disgusting. A parlour-maid, never conspicuous for
intelligence, had decided on the previous evening to take a
bath. Adjourning to my dressing-room on the third floor,
she turned on both the bath-taps, and went upstairs to get
ready, shutting the door behind her. Then she entirely
forgot her laudable purpose. The bath duly filled and over
flowed. A little water got out under the door and ran down
the stairs : the remainder formed a pool some two feet deep,
which soaked through my big wardrobe cupboard (ruining,
among other things, three new hats just sent on approval),
as well as by the edges of the cork-carpet, and descended
to the drawing-room, via the walls, the pictures and the
book-cases. When these and the carpet were saturated, it
accumulated between the floor joists. Thence, now com-

255

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

pletely befouled, it burst through into the dining-room, once
more over books and pictures, stopping only when it reached
the basement and found no further exit. Weeks passed
before we could start repairing the damage ; months passed
before we got rid of the dampness and the smell. Most of
my pictures had to be repaired and relined ; many of the
books never recovered at all.

Our principal festivity was an entertainment every Christ
mas for the children and their grandmother, for the old lady
now could seldom get over from Richmond to see them.
My wife invented the annual programme, the setting and
the dresses, these last being made by our faithful Elizabeth
Lowis, who had been my wife's maid before her marriage,
and was now the children's Nannie. Robin began his
appearances in public before he could walk, by climbing out
of a chimney in the dress of a Teddy Bear, with antics which
delighted his godfather Ricketts. The next year the pair
figured as green elves in a play with their clever little
Fraulein, who shortly afterwards was summarily claimed
and carried off, not without some misgiving I fancy, by a
tall, dark and imperious German fiance.

The following New Year's Eve produced a more elaborate
show 7 , and was attended by a considerable gathering. The
drawing-room was stripped and turned into a winter land
scape, with frosted lights and a white floor set with small
fir-trees, among which the boys and two little daughters of
my friend Richard Saunderson danced to music composed
by my wife. The effect of these graceful little white figures
winding through the trees was quite enchanting. When the
children had gone to bed, their seniors made the evening
still more memorable for us by sundry pseudo-dramatic
tableaux. Harold Child as Dr. Faustus was taken over his
books by a most uncanny and convincing devil (Walter
Sickert, I believe) : from beneath the waves of a dust-sheet
rose the brawny, hairy arm of Strang extending a tin
Excalibur, to be seized by a learned historian, drawn in as
a tottering King Arthur upon a child's wheeled trolley.

256

1904-19^0] THE SLADE PROFESSORSHIP

Then after supper we all turned out on to the terrace by
the dining-room, to welcome the New Year 1909 under'
the stars.

In the summer of 1908 we were invited to King Edward's
garden-party at Windsor, the first, I believe, of its kind,
and much smaller than its successors of to-day. For us the
experience was wholly novel and delightful, though it might
have been rather trying, since of course we knew hardly
anyone there, but for the protection of my aunt Lady
Holmes. We then went north to Espland, a farm-house on
the moors above Appleby. There the children ran wild
during the summer months, for more than one season.
Immediately under the range of the Pennines and sur
rounded by great sweeps of heather, Espland was a fine
centre for walking and sketching, though the fare and
accommodation were rough, too rough, I fear, for visitors
accustomed to the luxuries of a 'cottage 5 in the Home
Counties. Roman Fell, Murton Pike and the pyramid of
Dufton were landmarks for the drifting clouds ; High Cup
Nick, the great gloomy gorge in the Pennines, was within
walking distance; the Ghyll below the farm contained an
agreeably grim thero-morphic crag, The Monster on the Moor
of my Carfax show in 1909 ; altogether a wonderful range
of material for pictures.

My wife's musical gifts naturally introduced me to far
more people and performances connected with her art than
I had ever encountered before. The majestic bulk, acute
intellect and world-\vide experience of her teacher August
Wilhelmj impressed me most of all. When he took up a
fiddle to play to us after dinner, the poor thing dwindled
to a child's toy upon his colossal torso, yet as he bent over
it smiling he produced a tone of such overwhelming grandeur
that all other violin-playing I ever heard, Isaye and Joachim
not excepted, seemed the product of some smaller instru
ment fit to accompany the divine clarinet of a MiiHfeldt,
but not in itself an organ or an orchestra. Not less remark
able than the power thus displayed was the impression of a

257

SELF AND PARTNERS [1904-1910

still greater power held in reserve, behind the perfect
balance between feeling and knowledge which his rendering
maintained. With aH his musical dignity Wilhelmj was a
festive sou! 2 enjoying the good things and the good stories
of this world, as did his brilliant wife. I remember at their
house the Chevalier de Munck, who married Carlotta
Patti, telling us of a visit to Milan, where they found the
big looking-glass in their hotel suite with a hole smashed in
the middle of it. ' I bet Adelina and Strakosch (her brother-
in-law and musical director) have been here/ was Car-
lotta's remark. And so it proved to be. Adelina, in youth,
was handy with a hair-brush.

Of my wife's own musical enterprises at that time I
particularly remember three. The first was a very successful
concert given at the Star and Garter, Richmond, in 1904,
in aid of the Rochester Diocesan Society, of which my
mother was then the indefatigable secretary. The following
year was occupied far more seriously in arranging three
historical Recitals at the Salle Erard, to illustrate the use
of the violin in the seventeenth, eighteenth and nineteenth
centuries. The last two were postponed, owing to illness, to
the spring of 1906, and only a small audience attended the
first Recital, in November 1905. But the works by PurceU
and his forerunners, which were then given, threw so much
light upon the evolution of violin music as to attract con
siderable notice in the Press, and much larger audiences
for the subsequent 'periods. 5 Third, and most sumptuous,
came a performance of my wife's own compositions in
Shannon's big studio in Lansdowne Road, he and Ricketts
allowing the whole place to be turned topsy-turvy, and doing
everything for us with a princely disregard for their pockets
and their convenience.

258

CHAPTER XV

THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY (i)

(1909-1911)

Lionel Gust retires; fishing at Hawes; my appointment;
J. D. Milner; Lord Dillon; the Trustees; needs of the Gallery ;
a ' Burlington ' dinner ; T. W. Bacon ; Ricketts v. Fry at
Oxford; P. H. Lee-Warner; some curious portraits; poach
ing at Barnard Castle ; the Post-Impressionist controversy ; the
New English Art Club at its best; books and personages;
Rembrandt's Mill', Mr. Asquith.

IN the spring of 1909, Lionel Gust had so much trouble
with his eyesight that he decided to retire from the Director
ship of the National Portrait Gallery. In July he asked me
to come and see him. I found him seated, as usual, at the
end of the long table in the Gallery Board Room, with its
big windows, tall glazed book-cases and cheerful fireplace,
the very model of what a Director's room should be. Gust
was wearing dark blue glasses, and seemed worried over
the future of the Gallery. He wished to leave it in hands
that he could trust. Having expressed my sympathy, I
left, only to be summoned again two days later. He had
hoped that what he had told me would have led me to
apply for the vacancy. Such an idea had never entered my
head. I was no specialist on English Portraiture, and could
not possibly stand in the way of those who were. At the
moment, too, my combined professorship and editorship
brought in considerably more than the official salary, ^500 ;
others might not be so fortunate.

Gust then explained the real origin of his anxiety. Political
or persona! influence was being used in favour of certain
unnamed candidates, ill-fitted in his opinion either to main
tain the reputation of the Gallery or to satisfy the Trustees,
who, being gentlemen of the Old School, set, and expected,

259

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

a high standard of manners and character. Could I but
submit my name, that would make a political job very diffi
cult, if not impossible. Two friends, C. F. Bell of the Ash-
molean Museum, who had organized the notable exhibitions
of Oxford portraits, and Binyon, who had long been work
ing on the English drawings at the British Museum, were
clearly much better men for the post ; and I said so. c Well/
replied Cust, 'say what you please about others, so long as
you send in your own name to make things quite safe. 5 I
wrote a few lines accordingly to the Treasury, saying that
if both Bell and Binyon should decline the Directorship, I
was willing to submit my own name, and then went off for
our family holiday to Hawes in Yorkshire.

While prospecting there in the spring, I got an hour or
two by the Yore. There were plenty of trout, but they seemed
curiously difficult. At last with a tiny Black Midge I caught
one half-pounder, and was lying flat on the shingle to seduce
another, when two stout anglers came down the bank and
saw my fish. e How long have you been at it? 3 asked one.
4 Nearly an hour and a half/ I replied with some shame.
'Well/ said my questioner, c we've been here nearly a fort
night and have only taken two/ Nevertheless I managed
to get a second fish, and thoroughly satisfied therewith,
engaged lodgings for the summer.

It was raining when we arrived at the end of July, but the
moment the rain stopped I went down for half-an-hour, to
a place by the road which I had noted as good for spinning
a minnow. Having caught a brace of nice fish, as expected,
I went back to lunch, to be received almost with reverence
by our hostesses. I did not understand their surprise until
I had flogged that pleasant water for another three weeks,
without catching a single trout. Then, after heavy rain, the
sun came out one evening. All over the turbid stream the
fish rose, and took Tup's Fancy without hesitation. But my
casts must have been ruined by use in the preceding weeks
of drought. Eight several fish did I hook only to be igno-
miniously broken, until all my Tups were gone, and the rise

260

THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

was over. One fish, indeed, I got with the minnow, a week
later, but that was the end of my luck. Blades the postman,
the great local angler, told me that such caprice was no new
thing. During the first fortnight of his own holiday he had
caught only three fish; in the third week he caught over
ninety.

If Hawes was no easy Paradise for the fisherman, it pro
vided good material for the sketcher. I was reminded that
the great Steer had honoured it with his patronage, by find
ing his side view immortalized upon a picture-postcard of
Hardraw Force. The droop of the cigarette under the
moustache was a hall-mark in itself. Steer saw the place
in sunshine: I found wet weather more pictorial. The
clouds beating up from the west clung almost every after
noon to the summit of the Pennines, and spread impressive
shadows across the valley below. Every turn of the river 3
every stroll up the tributary streams, provided new fore
grounds and new summits from Swaledale to Ribblehead.
One very strenuous day was devoted to Gordale Scar and
Malham Cove, where I clambered and sketched and walked
to weariness. But these stupendous natural features were too
much for my limited art. I was no Turner or James Ward,
and could make nothing of them.

My wife was much hindered in her movements by an
attack of rheumatic fever, but she very pluckily scaled the
Butter Tubs Pass, and on a memorable occasion went with
me to Aysgarth Falls. I was riding a bicycle hired locally
for sixpence, and tied up in places with string. Being un
accustomed to its free-wheel and other novelties, I began
by running into a motor-car (fortunately it pulled up), and
falling off amid shouts of laughter from all concerned. No
other serious incident happened till we came to the long,
steep descent into Aysgarth. There the string of the brake
snapped, and I ran downhill headlong past my wife, and
everything else, faster and faster, until below me appeared
a sharp turning with a nasty stone wall against which I
must soon be smashed. Looking in desperation at the high,

261

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

steep banks on each side of the road, I saw a path running
abruptly up the bank to my left, and to it turned my furious
wheels. By some miracle they climbed right up that narrow

incline, and pitched me off at the top 3 quite gently, under
a signpost inscribed 'To Aysgarth Falls. 3

We were to leave Haw r es on August 2 8th. On the morn
ing of the syth, a letter was handed to me marked c Prime
Minister. 5 It offered me the National Portrait Gallery
Directorship. Mr. Asquith feels sure that the position will
be one of great interest to you, and will give you much scope
for your knowledge of art, and for those qualifications which
he has heard from all sides that you possess for a post of this
importance/ My superstition, that complete failure as a
fisherman spelled success in other things, became thence
forward a faith. The surprise was complete, for I had
expected no result from my little note except the appoint
ment of Bell or Binyon, and still more complete to my
relatives and friends, who naturally had no idea that I was
even a candidate. But when in London I apologized for
the curtness of my application, the answer was c Not at all.
If you care to see how not to apply for a post, here' and a
big bulging envelope was produced c is the dossier of a
candidate for another place, containing fifty-three letters
of recommendation from persons of no importance.' Sundry
conditions were named; I could not remain a Director of
the 'Burlington'; I could not well remain its responsible
editor; and since at first there would be much to do and
to learn, I might find the work incompatible with an
extended tenure of the Slade Professorship.

When the appointment was announced it was received
surprisingly well. Everyone seemed to think I could manage
the work : nobody stressed my ignorance of Portraits. What
gratified me particularly was the almost universal wish that
I should not give up the 'Burlington.' Our efforts to estab
lish a sort of nucleus of practical sense in administration and
of tolerance in criticism, had not, apparently, failed.

262

igog-ign] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

The letter which touched and troubled me most came
from Robbie Ross. He, it appeared, had been among the
candidates, and possibly one of the subjects of Gust's mysteri
ous reference. He was a personal friend of the Prime
Minister, yet his support of Oscar Wilde in the last unhappy
years of his life, for which Ross was honoured by us all, might
actually have created a prejudice against him in quarters
where the very name of Wilde was still taboo. Anyhow, it
was now too late to withdraw and, if we were fairly matched
in our ignorance of National Portraits, Ross both in private
means and in social attractiveness was much better equipped
for facing the world.

Walter Sickert wrote under no such disadvantage. 6 1 now
await with impatience and, I may say, not without some
indignation, your shamefully-deferred appointment as Arch
bishop of Canterbury, Inspector of Nuisances to the L.C.C.,
and house-surgeon of St. Thomas's Hospital. I shall shortly
offer you in your last capacity a portrait of George Jacob
Holyoake. Also I wish to apply for your vacant chair at
Oxford, if I am rightly informed that you are "leaving." If
not I shall do nothing. Soyez rassure. Vous n'avez rien a
craindre de yours always Walter Sickert. 5 Oxford, however,
expressed the wish that I should not resign abruptly, so I
postponed action till the beginning of 1910.

Gust, in due course, introduced me to the Gallery, where
I had to get through my first formal interview with my future
assistant^ J. D. Milner. Of course I had long known Milner
as an invaluable helper when any iconographic problem had
to be tackled; indeed this gentle, blushing pupil of Sir
George Scharf was so vastly my superior, not only in the
mechanics of Gallery administration but as a historical
specialist, that I felt like an interloping carpet-bagger.
Milner's modest tact did much to set me at my ease, for the
moment ; but I saw with dismay how unpleasantly hard I
should have to work before I could hold my own with such
an "assistant. 3 Gust and others, I found, were not blind to
Milner's ability, but thought him immature for promotion.

263

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

He had, it seemed, the further official disadvantage of having
in youth, quite needlessly and heedlessly he told me, passed
the Civil Service Examination for the Second Division
and the appointment of Second Division Clerks to Director
ships was not, in those days, regarded with favour.

Then Lord Dillon, the Chairman of the Board, appeared,
enchanting me at once by his magnificent figure and his
merry Irish humour, while I quickly came to respeet his fine
consideration, his sound judgment, and his wide antiquarian
experience. Six George Scharf and Sir Augustus Franks had
been his personal friends ; he knew, liked and laughed at my
uncle Richard Holmes, and he seemed to accept me at once
as the sort of person needed to work with Milner, whose
merits, in his opinion, had been rather kept in the back
ground hitherto. And as I gradually got to know the other
Trustees, it became evident that my lot was cast in a fair
ground.

Lord Ronald Gower I might regard as an old acquaint
ance; Lord Knutsford made himself a personal friend, full
of wisdom, reminiscences and zeal for the Gallery ; Lord
Cobham loved pictures as he loved cricket, Lord Ribblesdale
as he loved horses, good sportsmen both in the best sense
of the word. Sir Coutts Lindsay was now too old, Lord
(Edmond) Fitzmaurice in too indifferent health, to attend
meetings often. Both, like Sir Edward Poynter (contrary to
Ms reputation), made themselves invariably pleasant, as 'did
Sir William Anson and Lord Balcarres, the Vice-Chairman.
Sir Herbert Raphael was a brother fisherman; Professor
Firth an old Oxford acquaintance; and Edmund Gosse, if a
severe censor of literary reputations, was the reverse of
censorious to me; introducing me to sundry interesting
persons whom I should never otherwise have met. A little
later my friend C. F. Bell from Oxford was added to this
genial company, rather, I fear, to the disappointment of
Gust, who had hoped to continue as Trustee the work he had
done as Director.

The seven happiest years of my life were spent in working

264

LORD DILLON

From a medal fov Sidnev Garllne

J. D. MILNER.

igog-igii] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

with and for this wonderful body of men. They met my
difficulties, stupidities and occasional blunders with un
ruffled good-humour,, tactfully endeavouring always to help
and encourage, and making their individual suggestions
with a deference for the Director's point of view that relieved
him of any discomfort in expressing his own opinion frankly.
Not one single dispute, during all those seven years, disturbed
the atmosphere of friendship, confidence and laughter, in
which the business of the Gallery was conducted. Much, no
doubt, was due to Lord Dillon's own interest in every detail
of the Gallery administration ; still more to his tact, dignity
and humour. Yet all his experience and influence might
not have been enough to reconcile occasional differences of
opinion, had not those who differed been themselves great
gentlemen.

The first obvious duty was to start repairing my ignorance.
My wife, having a fancy for the subject, had recently been
presented by her father with the Cambridge Modern His
tory. Through the umpteen volumes of that conscientious
over-production I now plodded my way every evening.
Every day I worked under Milner's eye upon the admirable
reference collections which Scharf had founded. Royal
Portraits came first, and the traits of heredity revealed by
them provided me with material, as already mentioned, for
a final course of lectures at Oxford. Then came portraits of
eminent persons, whom the Gallery had not, so far, been
able to represent. These likenesses had to be solemnly
memorized, so that if lighted upon by chance they could be
registered or secured. This effort permanently affected my
visual memory. I did manage, at last, to fix in my mind
the look and features of a large number of deceased English
men, but at the cost of failing to remember living persons ;
a social disability for which the identification, occasionally,
of some unknown portrait no longer compensates. After
some three years, I could hold my own, even with Milner,
so far as features were concerned : for minutiae of dress, and
in particular for medals, orders, and other honorific dis-

265

SELF AND PARTNERS

tinctions, his eye and memory were beyond challenge.
Only on points of technical quality, and the characteristic
methods and touch of various portrait-painters, could I
speak before him without some little apprehension.

Milner initiated me, too, into the mysteries of official
correspondence : how to understand a Treasury letter, and
how to answer it. A Treasury letter, in those days at least,
was as much a work of art as a paragraph in Tacitus ; pro
gressing from a stately introduction to an abstract of the
matter in hand, so concise as to call for all the reader's wit
and skill in precise interpretation, and ending with a tail
which, as often as not, concealed a sting. Even a sanction
or concession which appeared, at first sight, to be generous,
would prove on close scrutiny to be hedged about with safe
guards and qualifications such as only long experience in
protecting the nation's small change could have devised,
and only exceptional literary skill could have so compressed.
To reply with anything like the same precision and finish was
no easy task, but as Child had taught me how to write
articles, so Milner now coached me in this more recondite
craft; it was really rather like composing a neat epigram.
After a while the Trustees would jestingly say, ' It *s a case for
one of the Director's famous letters, 3 and leave me to hammer
out my draft under Milner's eye. Milner's caution was a
precious corrective to my native rashness. He would con
tinually stop me from sending off* letters written in the heat
of the moment : the next morning we should see the words
with a fresh eye. The Gallery was a tiny Department, of
little account with its official overlords. If it was to get even
a few of the things which it urgently needed, it could not
afford mistakes.

These needs were many. The building in St. Martin's
Place, a generous gift from Mr. W. H. Alexander, was
singularly ill-adapted to its purpose. Even when first
opened, it could barely house the portraits; as these in
creased in number year by year, the congestion became worse
and worse. Plans and talk of extension, at some future date,

266

igog-ign] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

there might be ; but nothing more. The potentialities of the
Gallery as a vivid illustration of our national history had
always appealed to me. This power for good was obscured,
almost annihilated, by the very look of the place. If it was
ever to become a real educational influence it would have
to attract the public by its general appearance, its contents,
and its publications. What were the facts?

The portraits, good and bad, important and unimportant,
were crowded together in monotonous rows, according to
size, against a shabby green wall-paper. The catalogue was
equally crowded and uninviting. The floor was of rough
bare boards. The gloomy entrance and cavernous stair
ways were obstacles which we should have to accept: the
rest could be dealt with, in time. Time was evidently
necessary. Highly artistic people affected contempt for the
whole institution, saying that the best portraits ought to
be transferred to the National Gallery where they could be
properly seen, while the remainder might be kept on screens
or in racks as a sort of reference library. This was MacColFs
view; possibly, though I did not think of it then, that astute
Director had an eye for the additions which would accrue to
his collection at Millbank.

Heresies of this kind had to be endured in silence : the
'Burlington' was no longer available for combating them.
Even my kindly and sympathetic Trustees felt, like great
gentlemen of the Old School, that any popularizing of the
Gallery was akin to self-advertisement. People of a scholarly
habit would continue to come there; it was for them that
the collection was made and maintained. Rearrangement,
redecoration, they would heartily approve, but to court
publicity in any overt shape was clearly premature. Even
Lord Sudeley, long after, had to submit to the reputation of
being an amiable crank, until he slowly wore down the
prejudice against encouraging the public to use and appreci
ate their possessions.

Gust had tried to improve matters in his dignified way,
through the medium of official correspondence. A pile of

267

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

letters nearly two inches thick testified to his zeal about
floors and charwomen. ButR. S. Meiklejohn at the Treasury
had hinted that I might consult him personally if any
difficulty cropped up : I ventured to try the same method
with the Office of Works. Sir Schomberg MacDonnell at
once agreed to shelve all ancient dossiers and make a fresh
start, so that our floors, within a month or two, were being
polished by Ronuk, instead of being laboriously scrubbed.
No money for redecoration would be available before the
following April, but rehanging by the Gallery staff cost
nothing, so experiments could begin.

We had now the opportunity of practising what we had
preached In the * Burlington J ; the proper exhibition of the
best portraits, the relegation of the unimportant to ordered
obscurity. Our first floor had a range of rooms that were
badly lighted, so into them went the daubs, the dull divines
(Oust rather fancied divines), and similar depressing can
vases. Dead judges, doomed as a class to a like oblivion,
had a limbo all to themselves on the ground floor. By this
ruthless weeding of the collection, space could be found for
showing all the chief portraits, in historical sequence and
without overcrowding, in the galleries which had a good
light. The result of the first trial surprised us by the
number and quality of the good things which it revealed,
and we looked forward eagerly to the time when the
redecoration would be done, and the definite rearrange
ment possible.

Meanwhile a popular alternative to our informing but
formidable catalogue was urgently needed. ELM. Station
ery Office had not then learned to take pride in its publica
tions ; hence the only sort of Illustrated List which I could
contrive, and extract from the unwilling Controller, did no
credit to the printer's craft. If we had been allowed to go
to an outside firm, we could have produced the scrubby
thing for twopence-halfpenny, or thereabouts ; but we had
to take what we could get, or go without. Fortunately I
found a practical and friendly helper in Mr. Codling, now

268

THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

Mmself Controller, and by his good offices the Illustrated
List duly appeared in 1910.

We were a little consoled for its insignificance by the fact
that through an arrangement with Emery Walker, that
tireless friend of the Arts 5 all the portraits in the Gallery had
been photographed and prints of them made available for
the public. Few museums or galleries, at that time, were
so well served in this respect; and with such details of
equipment settled, for the time being, we could turn without
uneasiness to outside events. Callers and letters of inquiry
were many, but Milner answered the difficult questions,
while Bryant and Luxon, the chiefs of the attendant staff,
were models of method, so that it was possible with their
assistance to get through a fair amount of research work
almost every day.

In October I received my first official recognition as a
painter, when the Manchester Corporation bought my
Biasca (1908) for sixty-five guineas, a recognition made
doubly pleasant by coming from my native county, and
from the city where, at the Jubilee Exhibition of 1887, I
had first learned a little about British Art. My encourage
ment was increased through the purchase of a second
picture, The Garden Wall (a compromise, if I remember
rightly, between Daubigny and Wilson), by Mr. Alexander
of Didsbury .

Then came the news of the connexion between the famous
Flora bust and Richard Cockle Lucas. e Nothing, 3 wrote
a veteran English authority, e for a long while has given me
a purer joy. It will be an end for good and all of that
arrogant art dictatorship from which we have all suffered
so long. Is it too late for a note about it in the Mag? 3 On
the other hand, Bode, whose help for the c Burlington 5 in its
early days I had happened to mention just previously in a
speech, wrote : * I thank you the more fervently, as I had to
suffer just now from all the ridiculous attacks roused by the
acquisition of the Flora. None of all the English art critics
who claimed the bust for a work of the famous Lucas ever

269

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

saw the bust. 5 Personally I was sorry for Bode. Overbearing
he undeniably was, but he had done an immense work for
his country of which he might well be proud, and the outcry
which his rivals now raised over this one error of judgment
was less of a condemnation than a proof of his greatness.
Luckily it was no longer my duty to keep the peace between
these learned belligerents.

I had left the c Burlington/ but it had not yet forgotten me,
for on December i6th its patrons gave me a dinner at the
Trocadero, which is one of the great memories of my life.
Lord Plymouth, that firm friend to the Arts and to the
Magazine., took the chair, and among the company I was
specially pleased to see my uncle Richard Holmes and my
father-in-law ; the one for having fostered my boyish interest
in art, the other for having faith in me when the rest of my
folk had not. It was pleasant also to be able to give credit
where credit was due : to Fry for salving the Magazine and
for raising the bulk of the capital ; to Herbert Cook whose
generous contribution enabled us to start, and to many
others who in their several ways had helped the enterprise
through its troubles. Martin Conway, Fry, Gust, MacColl,
Ross and Colvin being the chief speakers besides the chair
man, the evening lacked neither variety nor wit, and I was
touched by many evidences of genuine goodwill, which now
make the list of those present rather melancholy reading :
Lord Plymouth, Lord Ronald Gower, Sir Edgar Speyer, Sir
Richard Holmes, Sir Purdon Clarke, Sir Cecil Smith, Sir
Isidore Spielmann, Sir Walter Armstrong, Lionel Cust,
A. F. G. Leveson-Gower, G. F. Laking, Colonel Croft-
Lyons, Roger E. Fry, Herbert Cook, D. S. MacCoU, Whit-
worth Wallis, A. G. Temple, Sidney Colvin, C. H. Read,
Laurence Binyon, Campbell Dodgson, G. F. Hill, A. M.
Hind, A. van de Put, E. F. Strange, H. Clifford Smith,
G. A. Whitworth, W. G. Rawlinson, R. Cripps, C. R.
Rivington, Edward Dillon, Arthur Morrison, A. J. Finberg,
A. Glutton-Brock, Lawrence Weaver, Robert Ross, S. M.
Peartree, T. Sturge Moore, Charles Ricketts, Philip Norman,

270

igog-ign] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

Emery Walker, Max Rosenheim, A. Clifton, Frank Rinder,
Marion Spielmann, Charles Shannon, G. Mayer, H. Velten,
C. Llewelyn Davies, Frank Gibson, L. Gordon Stables,
Harold Child, Bowyer Nichols, Sir Martin Conway.

Just before Christmas the Gallery received a notable gift
from Ellen Terry ; her portrait of Henry Irving by Bastien-
Lepage. She asked to be allowed to retain the fragment of
a letter pasted upon the back. It read: Tm expecting
Bastien-Lepage every moment. Pd cut up the nasty thing,
but think you like it. 3 The modernist, no doubt, would
dismiss the picture as a mere photographic snapshot. To
me it seems almost a model of its kind. Drawn most ably,
yet so lightly as to retain the sparkle of life, the small scale
gives it an intimacy which larger portraits seldom retain.
The artistic side of the Gallery, which I felt had been under
valued, was further reinforced three months later by Kneller's
remarkable study of the Duke of Monmouth, as he lay after
his execution. This masterly painting had been bequeathed
to the Gallery by Sir Francis Seymour Haden, but he was
now very old and in ill-health, so the Trustees agreed to
purchase it.

We spent Christmas at Ramsden with T. W. Bacon and
his wife s who endured the infliction of our whole family party.
Essex in the fogs and frost of winter is not always or every
where fascinating, but our host was a first-rate judge of
pictures one of the best, I think, in England and his
collection contained enough beauties, and enough critical
puzzles, to keep us occupied when not called off by season
able festivities, or the outdoor exercise they necessitate.
Since the Ramsden Collection included two pictures of mine,
Mountains of the Abruzzi and The Rain ofAshes^ it was a relief
to find that they held their own pretty well in that select
assemblage. Yet I made, I fear a a scurvy return to my host
for all this hospitality. Among the portraits was a sinister
gentleman in a cuirass, by Robert Walker. The sitter's
identity was then unknown, but research indicated that
lie was almost certainly the famous John Hampden;

271

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

Mr. Bacon in consequence felt bound to present him to
the Gallery.

The year 1910 opened with a great disappointment. Mr.
George Salting had bought Holbein's famous miniature of
Anne of Cleves, intending it for the National Portrait
Gallery, and had written the cheque for it at our Board
Room table in Gust's presence. But when the terms of
Salting's will came to be interpreted, this miniature was
allotted, as part of his c works of art,' to the Victoria and
Albert Museum. Pierpont Morgan, too, had wanted this
superb portrait. He told me how cross he was when it was
brought to Salting's notice by my uncle Richard Holmes,
and Gust had clinched the transaction.

As I looked through Salting's pictures with Holroyd and
Berenson at Trafalgar Square, I could not help contrasting
this superb bequest with Salting's habit of life. Some years
before, I had come one winter morning, by appointment,
to his rooms above the Thatched House Club. Salting had
not yet got up, but he insisted on my climbing, boots and
all, on to the very bed in which he was lying, so that I
might look closely at a Constable which hung above it, near
Crome's marvellous Moonrise on the Tare. Finally he rose,
a strange figure with his long gray beard and crumpled
nightgown, to show me some particular treasure. I feared
the old gentleman would catch cold, so insisted upon retiring
to the sitting-room till he had splashed in his saucer-balh,
and got some clothes on. When he had done the honours
of the things visible, he proceeded to reveal things hidden.
Plunging into a drawer full of collars and handkerchiefs he
pulled out a paper parcel. It contained a magnificent neck
lace which he hastily popped back, to rummage again until
he found underneath the ivory which he wanted. He was
always glad to get the opinion of others upon his purchases
and, if he found it unfavourable, would dispose of the
criticized treasure in part payment for some new purchase.
The dealers against whom he pitted his wits sometimes took
advantage of this peculiarity; first sending an emissary to

272

igog-ign] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

depreciate the object which they wanted, and then, when

they judged him to be sufficiently alarmed, calling and con
senting to take it off his hands as part of a fresh transaction.
Though a bottle of champagne was reputed to be an aid

to business with him, if another paid for it, he was generally
so indifferent to the luxuries, even the amenities of life, that
his hospitality in any other man would have been accounted
for meanness. Herbert Horne was asked to tea one day
at 4.30. At 4.20 he had just got into Piccadilly when he
ran right into Salting, coining out of the A.B.C. shop near
the corner with a paper bag in his hand. They walked
together to Salting's rooms. Salting sent down to the Club
for two cups of tea, and when these came he opened the
bag, producing two penny buns. My uncle Richard Holmes
had a similar experience. He was invited to lunch and came
up from Windsor for that purpose. Salting displayed his
latest purchases until the table in his sitting-room was heaped
with them. An hour or more was spent in this way, and
still nothing was said about the expected meal. My uncle,
a bit of a gourmet, grew fainter and fainter. At last he could
bear it no longer, and said he really must be off to lunch.
Oh ! I forgot, 3 replied Salting and, clearing a space with a
sweep of his arm among the outspread treasures, he pulled
open the table drawer to produce two plates of cold beef.

The time had now come (February 1910) for resigning
the Slade Professorship. My letter to the Vice-Chancellor
drew from him a reply so warm and so grateful for help in
the Ashmolean resettlement as to give me no little pleasure,
even after making allowance for the customary compliments
in such epistles. The 'Oxford Magazine 5 was still more
flattering, but I wondered whether there was not a touch of
irony in its opening sentence : The faithful audience which
regularly filled the lecture-room of the Slade Professor heard
with great regret the voice of the retiring occupant die away
at the close of his last lecture on Wednesday.' Die away !
It was the occasion on which, as I have related elsewhere, I
nearly fell fast asleep on the platform.

273

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

The combat for the succession promised to be keen, and
personally embarrassing too, since it involved two particular
friends. Ricketts had long loved Oxford, its buildings and
its collections. These he knew by heart; and we spent
several days together there 3 walking about the place, and
over my favourite Hinksey-Cumnor country. He was the
first to hear of my impending retirement, and to get details
of what was expected from a Professor. He even took lessons
in elocution to fit himself for lecturing.

Then, at the end of January, Fry received his conge from
America, a vile deed villainously done with every kind of
hypocritical slaver. . . . Now, my dear Holmes, I must
either get the Slade, or get sold up sooner or later on the
whole I prefer the former, and am going to draw up my
application and submit it to you. . . . Fll come and talk
things over with you soon and seek the consolation of yr.
wisdom. You see the effect of my speaking on Liberal
platforms here (Guildford), a Tory majority of 4000 odd. 5
Here was a pretty kettle of fish ! Ricketts, regarding Fry
as a kind of artistic Jesuit (to put it very mildly), would
think me a traitor; but I felt bound to help both equally,
so far as I could, and to avoid expressing a preference for
either.

The situation was unexpectedly relieved by the needs of
Selwyn Image, in whose favour Fry and Ricketts, like
brother Philip Sidneys, both stood down. For the sake of
Oxford I wished they had been less magnanimous. The
ground was ready to receive fresh seed of a kind which the
older man, with all his gentle good taste, could never sow.
Fry might have found there not only an addition to his
income, but the sympathetic environment which his temper
and energies needed: Ricketts, generous, versatile, pictur
esque and perhaps the safer guide for youth, was so soon
to develop his interest in the theatre that his sacrifice meant
less to himself than to the University. Under either, the
Golden Age of Ruskin might seem to have returned.

Colvin was another who regretted, for more personal

274

igog-ign] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

reasons, the way the Slade election had gone. He was look
ing forward, on his retirement from the Print-Room at the
end of the year, to at least a moiety of the 'Burlington 5

editorship, and correspondence had passed which encour
aged this hope. But now Fry had to squeeze into a place
by the side of Oust in the editorial chair, and that left no
possible room for a third occupant.

I was much engaged about this time with a new friend.
My 'Science of Picture-Making,* having reached a second
edition within a few months, brought me into frequent
communication with its publishers, Chatto and Windus, and
in particular with Philip Lee-Warner, the junior member of
the firm. Tall, frail, nervous, impetuous, his energy seemed
as inexhaustible as his audacity was terrifying to men of more
cautious habits. Being now bent upon enlarging Ms firm's
connexion with the fine arts, through books and colour-prints,
his enthusiasm, coupled with Ms merry eye, enlisted me as
an adviser for that purpose. MUner and I had been much
inconvenienced by the absence of any reliable literature upon
English sixteenth- and seventeenth-century painting. There
was room for several new books upon this uncharted area,
so, at Milner's suggestion, the Stuart period was chosen, and
Collins Baker introduced as the man for the job. Baker
fully justified out choice. Digging among arcMves, search
ing private collections, and marshalling Ms discoveries with
singular critical acumen, he made at once a reputation for
himself and a book wMch, in its own field, is unique.
Twenty-five years of research have failed to sensibly enlarge
or modify Ms account of 'Lely and the Stuart Portrait-
Painters. 3

The absolute authenticity of our National Portraits being
of prime importance, any question raised about them was
welcome, especially since investigation might produce
curious results. One of General Gordon's relatives chal
lenged a little portrait of him, said to have been painted at
Cairo in January 1884, ^Y a certain Leo Diet (who was he?),
just before Ms journey to Khartoum. The challenge pro-

275

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

duced a series of visits from those who had known Gordon,
and from some who had been with him at Cairo: Col.
Marsh, General Sir J. Sevan Edwards, Sir T. Francis, Sir
Evelyn Wood, General Owen Jones, Colonel Bollard and
Lord Cromer. Incidentally, the antiquity of the Lytton
Strachey legend (or perhaps its innocent origin) was shown
by one casual comment, 'That's not Gordon's eye. Gordon
had a brandy-bottle eye.' The General's movements during
every hour, from the time that he landed in Egypt to the
time he went up to Khartoum, could be checked by those
who had charge of him, and the result left no interval in
which the alleged portrait could have been sketched. It
must have been e faked' from a photograph, and as a fake
it was removed from the walls.

The portrait of Florence Nightingale in youth, by Augustus
Egg, was the next to face the firing-party of family criticism.
Here there was no question of fraud : the picture came to us
direct from the Rathbones, old friends of Miss Nightingale.
But could not those friends have been mistaken? Certainly
the gentle girl in the portrait did not look like one who
would afterwards develop into the imperious c Lady of the
Lamp.' Finally Miss Nightingale's niece, Mrs. Stephen,
came with her husband to see if she could decide the ques
tion. Her first impression seemed to be unfavourable, but
as she bent over the little painting I was suddenly struck by
her wonderful likeness to it. When her husband's attention
was drawn io the fact he exclaimed, 'Why, Barbara! It's
the very image of you, 3 and the more we looked from the
lady to the portrait the more unmistakable became the
family connexion between them.

On another occasion a lady called to inform us that the
accepted date for her grandfather's death was incorrect. He
had undoubtedly, as she explained with very natural hesita
tion, circulated a report of his death at Macao in 1852, in
order to escape from his wife and family, but had merely
moved on from Macao to Pekin. There for many years he
enjoyed the friendship of the Emperor, until he was detected,

276

1909-1911] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

at the age of 101, in an Intrigue with a lady of the Imperial
household, and was permitted to take poison.

When I first came to the Gallery, I noticed in a dark
corridor a portrait of Raikes the philanthropist, much in
need of cleaning, but an original by Romney. I was
corrected ; it was only a copy of a Romney by Sir William
Beechey, for which the Gallery had nevertheless been com
pelled to pay a stiff price. The original still belonged to the
family. This seemed incredible. Every touch in the paint
ing was Romney's own, and I could not believe Beechey
capable of making any such minute facsimile. Later, the
supposed original was sent to Christie's. One glance was
enough to show us that a mistake had been made. The
people who had driven so hard a bargain with Gust had
sold him the Romney believing it to be a copy, and had
retained the Beechey version for themselves.

Another and a much less admirable picture served at
least to prove how fine was the Board's consideration for its
officers. Among the portraits we put up for consideration
before the assembled Trustees was one which happened to
catch Lord Cobham's eye. He looked hard at it, scribbled
a note, and had it passed up to me. It ran : Are you quite

sure about L ? We have the same picture at Hagley as

Lord B , who bequeathed it to us himself. 3 The Board,

when I explained the dubious identity, was equally con
siderate. Not a hint of reproach for imperfect examination :
we might just make sure and report at the next Meeting.
How few, In like circumstances, could have refrained from
displaying their knowledge! With such masters it was
Impossible not to be happy and to do one's utmost.

The funeral of King Edward VII provided one memorable
moment. My wife and I were allowed to stand on the Horse
Guards Parade. As the procession moved slowly past us into
the Mall, we were suddenly aware of three superb horsemen
In scarlet emerging from the archway and moving abreast :
Sir Evelyn Wood, Lord Roberts and Lord Kitchener, all
stern and erect, with the sunlight glittering on their panoply.

277

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

As a rule one looks down upon a state procession from a
balcony or a window, whence even a Field-Marshal becomes
a mere speck in a pageant. Here the riders on their great
horses passed close by, towering above us. It was, I think
the most vivid and impressive spectacle I ever witnessed.

Our holidays in 1910 were spent with our children at
Esplandj for the most part uneventfully. Brackenber Moor
with the fells behind still provided fresh material for sketch
ing: a two-mile walk led to the Eden at Sandford and
tolerable trout-fishing. Mrs. Herringham came to stay with
us for a few days 3 and had some trouble in getting away.
Fanny, the mare, our only steed, obstinately refused to be
haltered (I'm an arrant funk and duffer at such things) ,
and we all tried to catch her in vain. At last there was
nothing for it but to pick up Mrs. Herringham's luggage,
and to start with her to trudge to the station, nearly four
miles away, my wife meanwhile persevering with the
recalcitrant mare. We had got down off the moor, and
staggered along a mile or more of the road, when a clatter
was heard behind, and down the hill trotted Fanny in the
trap, with my wife, so high was the driving-seat, looking like
a veritable Jehu. Mrs. Herringham duly caught her train ;
but it was a bad business that one whom we regarded with
particular affection and gratitude should have been picked
by Fate to suffer such discomfort.

An excursion to visit our friends Dr. and Mrs. Carter, who
had taken the vicarage at Barnard Castle, led me to the
brink of real disaster. Carter, who was salmon-fishing, told
me to bring a rod/ I had only cheap, light trout-rods at
Espland (Hardy's 6 Boys' rods 3 are bad to beat for common
use), so took over one of these, with flies and a Devon
minnow. Rising from a second breakfast, welcome after a
start in the small hours, we found the Tees running down
nicely after a flood. I found, too, that we were on Lord
Barnard's water, for which Carter had only a personal
permit, and remembered that I had no licence even to fish
the river. Carter pooh-poohed my qualms. He had fished

278

THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

for a month, and nobody had asked for any papers. Lunch
at one by a certain bridge was the all-important thing.

I was to fish down-stream, so down and down I went.,
finding the river everywhere too deep and full for profitable
work. It was nearly a quarter to one before two promising
pools appeared. In the first I touched a fish; and then,
though time was up, could not resist a careful cast over the
tail of the second. In a moment I was fast in a good sea-
trout ; the tackle was light, but duty to my hostess compelled
drastic measures. The fish fought gamely enough, fouled me
in a wire fence sunk in the river, and generally did his best :
but was dragged somehow into the net, a fine three-pounder.
Still I was already late, so with rod in one hand, net and fish
in the other, I turned and ran as hard as I could up-stream,
till I joined the luncheon party at the bridge, laid down my
rod, with the minnow still attached, by the side of Carter's
big salmon-rod, and was receiving the congratulations of
the company when the unexpected happened.

Up the path by which I had come three minutes before a
man approached. After glancing at the rods and the fish he
asked politely for our permits. While Carter, blushing, pro
duced Ms documents, I whipped out a sketch-book and bent
to make a hasty study of the bridge, having ears but no eyes
for what went on behind me. But my innocent hostess con
tinued to say how much she admired my fish. I prayed that
the keeper might not hear. To be convicted of taking sea-
trout without any licence, on a private water for which I had
no leave, and, as I subsequently found, with a lure which
was forbidden in that particular month, was such a case of
treble-dyed poaching that even my place as a Civil Servant
might hardly have borne the strain of exposure. The awful
moment passed, however, without the question being asked
as to which rod had taken the fish. Yet I should certainly
have been caught ftagrante delicto had not consideration for
my hostess led me to hurry that unlucky sea-trout, and take
to my heels, just before the keeper reached that point on
Ms beat.

2?9

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

On our return to London the first rumbling of the Post-
Impressionist storm was heard. Fry wrote (October 3rd
1910) : Tm afraid you've got to come on a Committee for
the Cezanne, Van Gogh, Gauguin show at the Grafton
Galleries. It's purely formal, just to give a blessing not to
the pictures themselves, but to the idea that people may be
allowed to look at them. So please be good and do as
you're told. 5 Having served for some time on the Committee
of the newly founded Contemporary Art Society, and being
much interested by the few examples of Gauguin and others
that I had seen, I was willing enough to help. But the
violence of the controversy roused by the show, the criticism
of officials, like Claude Phillips and myself, for backing what
was deemed aesthetic Bolshevism^ and the earnest wish of
my friend Lee- Warner 'that I w r ould write something for him,
drove me to put together, very hastily, my first thoughts
about the Movement.

c Notes on the Post-Impressionist Painters, 3 an attempt, in
my usual rather cautious way, to survey the exhibition
without bias, seemed to please nobody. Opinions at the
time were too sharply divided for reconciliation. Ricketts
w r as stirred by my liking for Van Gogh, and wrote at length,
and trenchantly: 'This twisted touch is a common fact in
the drawing of lunatics, a doctor will tell you so. . . . Why talk
of the sincerity of all this rubbish? the lunatic is sincere who
thinks he is Christ or Mr. Asquith. . . . Why this monopoly
of sincerity for men who, like Fry and "tutti qiianti," are
doing all they can to advertise their sincerity., etc., etc. . . .
P.S. I am thinking of starting a national subscription to get
Plymouth and Curzon painted by Matisse and Picasso. 3

This view, that the Post-Impressionists were insane, found
many adherents. Dr. Hyslop, a prominent alienist of the
moment, delivered an illustrated lecture on the subject
before the Art Workers 5 Guild. His arguments and evidence,
however, were based upon such a complete misapprehension
of the aims of painting, in all but its most commonplace and
trivial aspects, that I was wholly unconvinced, and indig-

280

1909-1911] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

nant that this elementary, catch-penny stuff should be put
forward as the verdict of Science. Yet his conclusions were
accepted with such respect, and such enthusiastic applause,
as left no doubt as to the sympathies of the artists and crafts
men there present. These were voiced by Selwyn Image in
an appreciative little speech. Unwilling to oppose my suc
cessor at Oxford, I suggested, when called upon, that Fred
Brown, as the other living Slade Professor, should speak in
my place. To my delight he proved to be as little satisfied
with the lecturer's evidence as I had been, and said so with
Ms accustomed candour and pluck. His last words, coming
as they did from one with his magnificent record, must have
made his audience thoughtful: 'All I can say is, that if
Van Gogh as an artist was mad, I wish I had a little of his
madness.*

To Fry, however, my sympathy seemed too lukewarm, too
pedantically qualified. I had hoped to rectify some hasty
conclusions, about Cezanne and others, by an article in the
4 Burlington. 3 It was rejected. Fry's letter states his point
of view so admirably that I may be forgiven for quoting it.
Fm awfully sorry that we cannot very well put your article
on the Post-Impressionists into the January number of the
Magazine, since we are already committed to one by Brock.
He should, of course, have written in the "Times, 35 but has
been forestalled by s; another. 55 It is quite right we should
differ about the value of Vlaminck, Matisse, etc. ; the great
point is we unite in admiring the others. I shall be very
much interested to read your criticism, but do let me warn
you not to have a consistent theory about art it is very
dangerous. It should be made up from time to time to suit
the circumstances. 3

Reviewing my 'Notes 3 he found me c too much of the
schoolmaster,' and congratulated me ironically on the courage
shown by my c patronizing estimate of Cezanne, in view of
the almost complete unanimity among foreign critics in
giving him a much more exalted position. 5 I fear I am still
unrepentant. Cezanne's aims may have been all that his

281

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

worshippers believe: his achievements still appear to me
unequal, including a number of admirable, original and
powerful paintings, but also much that is slight, clumsy or
misdirected. It would be much easier to accept his canon
ization if the failures were admitted, and not treated as
masterpieces. This inability to distinguish between a man's
failures and his triumphs is not the least of the confusions
which the new aesthetic philosophy has brought with it.
Practical painters, and critics of the Older School, knew
that even a Rembrandt or a Titian might have an off-day.
Modern theory, making the man the sole measure, draws
no such distinction between products good and products
less good; an omission which the French dealers, very
naturally, do not correct.

For me, Fry's rapid improvisations of perception and
theory came too near to opportunism ; brilliant, suggestive
and stimulating, no doubt, but compelled, by the need for
momentary predominance, to obscure or denounce all other
beacon lights, even those which time had shown to be trust
worthy, and which, just before, had been most carefully
tended. My cautious, prosaic mind could only approach
new phenomena by attempting to connect them logically
with the great parent stem of artistic Hfe. This habit has
led me continually, I fear, to underestimate the services done
to mankind by the vehement advocates, who force the case
of each client of the moment to be heard, although the
ultimate summing-up may shear away the best part of their
arguments. In thinking Fry too prone to disproportionate
enthusiasms, I forgot that I owed the main interest of my
own life to Ruskin.

At the moment, however., my attention was distracted by
a second 'one man show' at Carfax. This was well
noticed, and almost everything was sold to buyers whose
names could not fail to please a comparative novice. In
addition to friends, acquaintances and keen judges like Eric
Maclagan, T. W. Bacon, Walter Taylor, Herbert Trench,
Frank Stoop and Lord Henry Bentinck 3 two collectors on a

282

1909-1911] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

larger scale appeared. One of them, Geoffrey Blackwell, I
had met some weeks earlier, through an odd sequence of
events. In April 1909 I had been asked to write an article
for the 'Times' upon Steer's exhibition at the Goupil
Gallery. My friend Glutton-Brock was not then securely
established as its art critic, and thought the occasion called
for an outside specialist. The article happened to catch
BlackwelTs eye ; interested him enough to lead him to start
collecting Steer, and subsequently to try to track down the
anonymous writer to whom he owed this new pleasure in
life. At the end of eighteen months he had got as far as
Brock, and from Brock he got to me, proving his gratitude
by an excellent lunch and the purchase of several drawings
from Carfax.

Professor Michael Sadler, with his charming wife and
brilliant son, collected on larger lines, and for many years
have played so considerable a part in my life as to make
this moment of first acquaintance a memorable event. Being
North-country people, the Sadlers were full of the spirit of
the hills, and this they found in the subjects from Yorkshire
and the Lake District which composed the bulk of rny little
show. I felt rather a fraud over two of their favourite
paintings. One, The Beck from Goatswater, was done entirely
from memory of the drenching I got there with my brother
in the summer of 1883, before I had even thought of sketch
ing. The other, Summer on the Fells, had an origin still more
unsubstantial. My son Robin, as a baby, was scrawling on
a piece of paper. The casual pencil outline suggested a
design: all that remained was to give it solidity. The
generous but always critical interest which the Sadlers took
in my work continued when the Professor had accepted the
Vice-Chancellorship of Leeds University. In consequence
they own, or have presented to public institutions, quite a
considerable part of my output.

Though I was naturally encouraged by their good opinion,
I might still have regarded it as a friendly and personal
enthusiasm were it not for another incident, I was surprised

283

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

one day at the Portrait Gallery by a visit from Tonks. He
did not beat about the bush, but told me that it was my
plain duty to give up my official work and take to painting
as a profession. Strang, fifteen years earlier, had said much
the same. Now I could only return much the same
answer : that I was conscious only of a very limited vein
of creation ; that it would be exhausted at once if I tried
to work it seven days in the week. 'Very well/ Tonks
replied, * I've said what I felt bound to say, and I won't say
it again.' So he departed, leaving me rather shaken, for
his authority could not be lightly set aside.

He had long been famous as one of the great forces at the
Slade School, where, with Professor Brown and Steer, he
had taught a generation to draw, to paint and to support
the New English Art Club. The Club at this time was
almost at the height of its fame. The Suffolk Street Galleries
gave ample space for the water-colours and drawings of
Steer, Tonks, Max Beerbohm, Muirhead Bone and other
masters of the craft, and also showed to advantage the
paintings which, season after season, were provided by John,
Orpen, Sargent, Sickert, Rothenstein, Russell, MacEvoy,
Pissarro and others, including, of course, the trio from the
Slade School. If the Slade element did preponderate upon
the Selecting Jury, I never found it unfair. Once, indeed, it
rejected, quite rightly, a drawing of mine while I was
actually serving upon it. Another time, a portrait by
Sargent, an undistinguished performance, only just escaped
rejection by the Secretary's casting-vote.

The predominance of the Slade School may have given its
promising students a slightly better chance of consideration
than unknown outsiders, but the few complaints came from
older artists who expected more prominence than accident
or the Hanging Committee had given them. The long
experience of the senior members, aided by Francis Bate's
shrewd judgment, led to the arrangement of the pictures
being as effective as their selection had been careful, so that
the Club came to enjoy an unwonted popularity with the

284

1909-1911] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

public and the Press. I learned much from serving on the
Committee, and was constantly stimulated by the desire to
make a respectable show among men so much better trained,
and more highly gifted. It was an honour to be accepted
by them at all, and if I could have fairly earned a prominent
place I was sure that it would not be denied. Only once, in
the winter cf 1911, did I seem to come" near to such promi
nence with a painting of Saddleback from the S.W., an experi
ment inspired by the example of Korin, The picture
shocked Claude Phillips and others by Its violence, but really
interested Ricketts, and so pleased my friend Cripps that,
when it remained unsold, I made him a present of it.

Looking back over the events of 1911 I wonder that there
should have been any time left for painting. The official
routine was complicated by the redecoration of the building
section by section, and by an entire rearrangement of the
portraits, while outside matters combined to keep me busy.
My uncle Richard Holmes, now bedridden, needed atten
tion, and the troublesome executorship which followed his
death in March needed still more. His rather lonely end,
in a cramped South London flat, made a sad contrast to the
spacious days when, as a boy, I had visited him in the
Library at Windsor, surrounded by the great ones of the
earth and every comfort imaginable. I had not realized till
then that these amenities of life last only so long as a man
can play his part in public.

Committee meetings National Art-Collections Fund,
Contemporary Art Society, New English Art Club ; Walpole
Society, Alfred Stevens Memorial and the like made no
such constant claim as did my friend Lee-Warner. His
projects for new c Medici 9 prints; for new books, including
a series of works on Angling edited by H. T. Sheringham
and Eric Parker ; a new translation of Vasari which had to
be c read' and illustrated; Collins Baker's innumerable
needs for his volumes on Lely; negotiations, not always
friendly and rarely simple, with other persons or firms ; all
these involved endless meetings, talks and letters.

285

SELF AND PARTNERS ['1909-1911

Then my own book, 'Notes on the Art of Rembrandt,' had
to be finished and seen through the Press. In its predecessor,
'Notes on the Science of Picture-Making/ I had tried to
work out the elements of studio practice. Now I wished to
study the lines on which an artist might develop his personal
gifts to the best advantage, taking the life and work of
Rembrandt as the subject for demonstration. The Oxford
lectures on which the idea was founded had been popular ;
I gave some care to its presentation in book form ; the book
was favourably reviewed and fell between several stools.
Its advocacy of self-training could not recommend it to
professional art teachers ; the style was not enough to make
it live as literature; the critical matter was almost immedi
ately absorbed, superseded and buried by the issue of my
friend A. M. Hind's exhaustive catalogue. A good many
years passed before the first edition went ' Out of Print/ and
the rate of sale did not warrant any reissue.

Officialdom brought with it a new range of social experi
ences. At one Academy Banquet, Mr. Asquith treated the
company to a speech of such masterful irony that I was
compelled to admiration, in spite of my Conservative dislike
for the 'sinister activities' of his Government. Mr. Lloyd
George's Limehouse demagogy, Mr. Winston Churchill's

election cry of c Chinese Slavery ' (We won't have any b y

Chinese coming here to take the bread out of our mouths,'
I heard one workman remark on polling-day), seemed venial
offences compared with the doings of Mr. Birrell, his slander
ing of our troops in the critical days of the Boer War ( 'heca
tombs of slaughtered babes ' and the like), and fatal, flippant
evasion of his plain duties in Ireland. Almost alone, John
Morley seemed free from open defects, and even he, when
I heard him speak, proved rather more complacent than his
repute, and not quite so genuine. At a Downing Street
Garden Party, however where Anthony Asquith, a little
boy with a big mane of blond hair, was more conspicuous
than most of the distinguished company Mr. Lloyd George,
seen clearly in the flesh, left a pleasant impression. I had

286

1909-1911] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

to watch him on HolroycTs behalf, to wait until he had set
down his coffee-cup and was turning from the table, so that
Holroyd might catch him unoccupied and ask for help
towards the ptirchase of the big Mabuse Adoration from
Castle Howard. He got it.

With the Rembrandt Mill, belonging to Lord Lansdowne,
Holroyd had been less fortunate. We had been anxious
about the picture for some years before it actually came into
the market. A London collector had bought a historic
portrait from Lord Lansdowne for -10,000. c Oifer him
the same for The Mill? counselled the collector's adviser.
He did so. The reply was a refusal, but a refusal qualified
by the words, 'Had the offer been 20,000 I might have
considered it.' 'Take him at his word at once, 3 was now
the counsellor's advice. But the collector, always keen for
a bargain, offered 15,000, and this time there was no reply.
At 20,000, The Mill, one of the irreplaceable masterpieces
in the country, was clearly at any foreigner's mercy. When
Lord Lansdowne was offered 100,000 for it, its loss was a
foregone conclusion. He was willing to allow the Nation a
rebate of 10 per cent, on that price, and the picture was
placed on exhibition at Trafalgar Square. But the miracle
of the c Norfolk ' Holbein was not repeated, and The Mill
was carried off to Philadelphia.

One consolation remained. When I first saw The Mill.,
the patination of time had invested it with mystery and
magnificence. But when shown at Trafalgar Square it had
been recently cleaned, and so drastically that all its glamour
was gone. It was hard, bright, almost common. Nor, when
I saw it in America nearly twenty years later, had it com
pletely recovered. Cleaning has done much to reveal the
magic and smouldering colour in many of Rembrandt's
later works : indeed, until they were cleaned with modern
thoroughness, their beauties were unknown and unsuspected.
But The Mill was too delicate for any such strong remedies.

One great experience came at the end of 191 1 : Edmund
Gosse, as kind in person as he was caustic in debate, asked

287

SELF AND PARTNERS [1909-1911

me to dinner to meet the Prime Minister, Mr. Asquith's
character at the time was hardly more respected by Tory
gossip than were his measures. Those who had worked
under him were no l.ess unanimous in their liking. I was
naturally curious to judge for myself, and since neither
Henry James, Professor Fitzmaurice Kelly, nor Walter
Sickert (present, he informed me, as the son-in-law of
Richard Cobden) were in need of particular attention, I
was able to listen undisturbed to the great man opposite and
his table-talk. Presently Gosse remarked, c Oh! I had a
curious experience the other day. Lord Curzon confessed
to me that his secret ambition had always been the life of a
plain country gentleman. If he could only get out of
politics, he would settle down on his estates and take no
more part in public life.' 'When did he tell you this? ' asked
the Prime Minister. 'Last Thursday/ was the reply.
'Ah! The day after Bonar Law was elected Leader of the
Conservative Party.'

When Mr. Asquith had been comfortably settled in an
arm-chair by the fire, each of us was taken up in turn to
have ten minutes' talk with him. While encountering rather
heavy weather between Henry James and Professor Kelly
(Henry James was definitely lethargic), I was startled by
hearing the voice of Sickert saying clearly and cheerfully to
the Prime Minister, C I am a master in a London County
Council School, and I owe my job to Holmes over there.
That reminds me, Mr. Asquith, if you ever should need a
testimonial, take my advice, and get Holmes to write one
for you. 5 Bless his merry impudence !

When my turn came I was asked about the methods of my
Board, explained how happy I was, and how smoothly
everything worked owing to Lord Dillon's tact and sense of
humour. 'Yes,' said Mr. Asquith, c a sense of humour is
useful, even with a Cabinet.' He then proceeded to ask me
about Mr. Walter Morrison's offer to rebuild Balliol Chapel,
in a style more congruous than Butterfield's with the rest of
the College. Such accretions of various periods were, I felt,

288

igog-ign] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

part of the character of all ancient foundations, and should
not be removed just to obtain factitious uniformity. 'Yes/
commented Asquith, e our Chapel is a landmark of Tstory,
as my friend John Burns said of the river Thames.' I have
often wondered since whether this humorous outlook upon
life did not lead him to rely too much upon adroitness in
debate, of which he was a master ; to smile at weakness in
his colleagues, especially the wittiest of them, a little too
often, and much too long for his own ultimate repute. Firm
enough in himself, he was, perhaps, too steadfast a friend to
be the perfect ruler.

289

CHAPTER XVI
THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY (ii)

(1912-1916)

Rearrangement of the Gallery; its importance to the Nation;
pleasures of Langton Field; Oscar Wilde monument; Hol
bein's Archbishop Warham; a story of Lord Curzon; exhibi
tion at Carfax ; Reginald Farrer ; ' The Tarn and the Lake ' ;
pictures and noble owners ; the suffragettes ; first consequences
of the War; the V.C.F. and the R.N.V.R. ; duty at Sandring-
ham ; lectures at Dublin ; arrest as a spy ; retirement of
Holroyd; a letter to Lord Ribblesdale; appointment to
Trafalgar Square.

OUR paramount occupation from 1910 to 1912 was the re-
hanging of the whole collection, and the redecoration of the
building. In this latter task we found sympathetic coadjutors
in Sir Lionel Earle and Mr. Norton of the Office of Works,
with whose help we were able to transform the whole place.
Under the old, dirty, green wall-paper lay deal panelling of
tolerable quality. By staining this woodwork, by painting
the upper part of the walls white, and by adding a cornice
where necessary, we managed to give the galleries a far-off
resemblance to panelled rooms in a Tudor mansion. Not
only was the artistic effect of the earlier portraits notably
enhanced by the semi-traditional background, but they
seemed to derive from it a historic character and atmosphere
unlike that of a mere modern museum.

To maintain this character by grouping pictures in chrono
logical sequence, and to reconcile it with decorative display,
often seemed hopeless. A room might have to be hung five
or six times before we could feel that we had got the least bad
result from our materials. Also the general sequence of
rooms and periods had to be so arranged that, when the
much-needed extension of the building came, there would

290

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

be no need to reshuffle the contents, or break with historical
continuity. The weeding out of unimportant portraits and
duplicates (as already mentioned) was well received by the
public and the Press ; being the first occasion, in England,
when minor possessions had been definitely set apart in order
that the major things might be shown to advantage. By
starting, with the aid of Mr. Walter Stoneman, a National
Photographic Record, we hoped to provide for the com
moner wants of the future.

I have always had a fanatic belief in the potential value
of the National Portrait Gallery, as a living adjunct and
illustration to our national history. The more democratic
we grow, the more perilous, at any crisis, is the absence of a
historical sense on the part of the electorate. No feature of
our time is more disquieting than the efforts made elsewhere,
and occasionally in England, to distort or suppress the
experience of the past, if it appears to conflict with the
intrigues of a party or the interest of a politician. As an
essential feature in our national education, the National
Portrait Gallery, even now, is greatly undervalued. Were
it used, as an autocrat would use it, for teaching every
schoolboy and schoolgirl, within a workable radius, what
English learning, courage and enterprise have achieved, our
outlook upon the future would be far less uncertain. Judging
by the number of American visitors twenty-five years ago
if not also by the 'souvenirs/ the spurs from effigies and the
tablets from frames, which they were wont to break off
the Eastern States actually seemed to take more interest in
English history than the English themselves. Lord Sude-
ley's efforts and guide-lecturers have done much to improve
things since then. Yet until our educational authorities all
recognize that examination papers are not a complete
preparation for civic life, we cannot expect to see this unique
collection put to its full and proper use.

From these solemn concerns, our holidays in 1912 and
I 9 I 3 S ave us a welcome change. We had rented for 20,
and roughly furnished for a similar sum, a little modern

291

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

farm-house, rather like a humble vicarage, at the northern
end of Brackenber Moor. Langton Field stocd on a knoll
in the middle of a big pasture, across which visitors had to
pick their way, a precarious business at nightfall, among
the cattle and their adjuncts. Below the house lay the old
farm where our landlord lived, by the ruinous paddock of
the bull which, a year previously, had killed his father in
front of our very door. Whenever we passed that way, the
brute's gloomy, savage head still eyed us through a gap in
the crumbling wall.

Braced perpetually by the sharp air of the Pennines, we
all enjoyed rude health and a singular diversity of attrac
tions. Visitors to that remote spot were not many. Yet one
afternoon I particularly remember, for it produced a singu
larly handsome couple, young Michael Sadler and his
fiancee, who descended upon us quite unexpectedly from a
long tramp over the moors, like visible embodiments of the
wind and sunshine. For sport of a humble kind the place
was unrivalled. Less than three hundred yards away ran
Hylton Beck, which could be followed., more or less, and
fished for some two miles. On the far bank lay Brackenber
Moor with its breezy golf-course, never crowded in those
days and absurdly cheap. The farm itself had big fields all
round, where rabbits sat out in the gloaming to be potted
with a -22 rifle, and always, within a mile or so, lay the main
ridge of the Pennines, with the great basaltic gorge of High
Cup Nick, the peak of Murton Pike, the hump of Roman
Fell, all changing shape and proportion as one walked. In
the house I had a little back room of my own, with a small
chair and table, where one could write or draw so long as
the light lasted and no other occupation pressed.

The normal routine would begin with a round of golf,
and a sketch or two if the clouds and scenery inspired it.
Then drawing or writing till tea-time, followed by a trial
of the beck with up-stream worm or fly, according to the
state of the water. Half-pounders then were not uncommon,
and once I almost had my neck broken by a fish of nearly

292

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

a pound, which tore down in and out of the boulders below
me for a hundred yards, while I ran stumbling, slipping and
splashing in his wake. Finally I got a hand to his fat side
and heaved him out into the heather. By six o'clock it was
too cold even for the trout, but the rabbits were beginning
to show, and among them the day's adventures ended.

The uncertainty of local tradesmen's deliveries in this
remote sanctuary was its chief drawback. Having no Fanny
to bear us over the switchback miles to Appleby, I got used
to carrying a large market-basket thither on Saturday morn
ing, loading it with the outstanding needs of the kitchen, and
tramping back with it uphill. It was some consolation to
recognize the change from the warm frowst, as it seemed in
comparison, of the Eden Valley to the clean stimulating
airs of Langton, three hundred feet up the hillside. To that
air and to those diversions 'The Tarn and the Lake' owes
any spirit it may possess. It is the single piece of writing
that I did with real zest, feeling free, for once, from all the
responsibilities, artistic, literary and official, which com
monly cramped my conscience.

Our diversions at the Gallery included the inspection of a
little mare's nest of fifteenth- and sixteenth-century portraits,
all of them manufactured within the last fifty years from
prints or photographs, and the dilemma occasioned by the
offer of Boldini's slashing portrait of Lady Colin Campbell.
Was she famous enough for acceptance? Was not the
picture too brilliant to be refused? Our 'Ten Years Rule 5
and the Newcastle Art Gallery in the end provided a way
of escape, except from the keen eye of one cynic, who sent
us a postcard, purporting to come from a rival society beauty,
and protesting against the business in terms too scandalous
for quotation.

Even official figures and accounts had their humorous
moments. We had conceived a scheme whereby the cost
of administering the Gallery could be reduced by 650 in
the remaining half of the financial year ; hoping that such
a spontaneous retrenchment would encourage our lords and

293

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

masters at the Treasury to give us the little help towards the
publications, etc., which we so badly needed. But when we
submitted the scheme for criticism to the author of sundry
profound works on public economy and high finance, he
could not see that a saving of 650 in six months was
equivalent to 1300 in a full year. A few days later, having
at last worked out the sum, he came round to get credit for
the discovery.

The queerest muddle of all arose from the National
Insurance Act of 1912. Most of its verbiage we managed to
puzzle out for ourselves, but a point about the pay of char
women for a half-day's work remained wholly incompre
hensible. Reading the 'Times/ as my habit was, I lighted
upon an answer In Parliament which gave us the Govern
ment's interpretation of the Act. I duly passed on the glad
news to Hawes Turner, the much worried secretary of the
National Gallery, and to our charwomen ; paying wages and
producing stamps in accordance with the House of Commons
ruling. The Treasury, however, had taken a different view
of the cryptic paragraph, as I learned some months later
when they demanded a refund of the monies we were alleged
to have overpaid.

Some little time before, I had agreed to act as arbitrator
between those responsible for erecting the memorial to Oscar
Wilde in Paris, and Epstein, who was to carve it. The one
stipulation I made, and always make in such cases, was that
I should be absolutely free to use my own judgment, what
ever strict law or apparent equity might demand. This free
dom was needed. As happens so often, the colossal sphinx
was nearly finished in Epstein's Chelsea studio, but the
sculptor needed a further advance to get it completed and
set up in Pere la Chaise. When the parties and their legal
representatives had argued the case before me, with more
vehemence than tact, I gave a decision which the one side
denounced as contrary to law, the other as less than justice.
But the monument got finished and put up, which was the
main thing.

294

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

A far more anxious and delicate problem followed. Lord
Dillon's version of Holbein's Archbishop Warham (now be
queathed by him to the National Portrait Gallery) developed
large blisters in the background. At Lord Dillon's request
I took the picture to Buttery for restoration ; only to be met
with a refusal. c I should have to charge the old gentleman
.100 or more, and I can't do that. You had better just fill
up the places yourself.' Like a fool I consented, mainly
from the wish to save my kind Chairman from a heavy
expense. The first thing was to get the blisters laid, and
my heart sank as I watched the professional at work. It
was like seeing a friend operated upon for appendicitis with
a tin-opener, and the shattered holes that remained when
the operation had ended were quite terrifying.

Having, at the time, only a theoretic knowledge of the
gesso filling which restorers employ, I decided to risk using
flake-white. Weeks passed before I could plaster the gaps
with the wretched stuff, and get the surface tolerably level
with the original. Even then I had to face the well-known
obstacle to all repairs with oil-paint, the darkening of the
oil, which makes such restorations tell after a few years as
brown patches. I understood, however, that one pigment,
Brown Pink, was absolutely fugitive. If it only acted up to
its reputation, its fading might counterbalance the darken
ing of the oil. So I spent week after week matching the
pattern of the curtain with that fugitive yellow-brown and
a permanent green, varnished the patches to match the
rest, and finally returned the thing to its owner, whose
patience (no wonder!) was wearing a little thin. When I
next went to stay at Ditchley, I sneaked round at the first
convenient moment to inspect the patches. To my intense
relief I found them invisible and, as they have remained so
for some twenty years since then, I trust they will outlast
my lifetime. After seeing some of the great professional
restorers at work, I realize what a risk I took, and my good
luck in escaping from it.

At the end of November 1912 I gave evidence before a

295

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

Committee of the National Gallery Trustees as to the reten
tion of important pictures in England, and other matters
connected with the National Collections. Fry was the
witness who preceded me, and it was amusing to see the
courage with which he faced the rather overwhelming
manner of Lord Curzon. The Committee certainly col
lected a mass, of facts and opinions bearing on administrative
questions, and its Report, issued in 1915 in the form of an
official document, was sensible enough upon such simple
matters as the Chantrey Bequest, and the best way of
managing the Tate Gallery. But on harder and more vital
problems the limitation of the national aims to a few
irreplaceable masterpieces ; the means to secure these few
masterpieces against foreign purchasers, whether by a capital
fund or otherwise, and the all-important business of the
Director's authority the issue was discreetly evaded; in
the last case on the remarkable ground that the majority
of the Committee had insufficient experience.

Lord Carlisle, on the other "hand, with twenty-two years'
experience, had made a courageous protest against the
subordination of the Director to the Trustees. But he had
recently died, and his protest, though not actually sup
pressed in the Report, was printed inconspicuously on the
last page of it, among the Addenda to Lord Rosebery's
famous, or fatal-, Minute of 1894, which set up the present
constitution in the place of that under which Eastlake,
Boxall and Burton had achieved their triumphs.

I rather liked the little I had seen of Lord Curzon. My
impression was confirmed by a story I heard at dinner from
Ralph Knott, the young architect of the County Hall, who
had been helping with the restoration of Tattershall Castle.
The prospect round the castle would have been pleasing
but for one staring red cottage. c lvy is indicated, I think/
said Lord Curzon : so over to the cottage they walked, to
find a large lady occupied with the family washing. Lord
Curzon speedily gained her good graces by praising the
situation and convenience of the cottage ; then led tactfully

296

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

up to the topic of ivy, its varieties, and what he would be
happy to provide. All was practically settled, when a photo
graph on the wall was noticed. It showed the woman's
husband, a soldier, who had served in India at a place
which the wife named, and mispronounced. Lord Curzon
could not refrain from correcting her. My husband ought
to know,' was the reply, c he was stationed there.' c Yes,'
said Curzon, 'but I know still better, for I was Viceroy of
India.' c Ah! get on with you,' answered the woman, and
taking him by the shoulder she pushed him out of the house.
Far from being angry, he rocked with laughter, saying only,
*I fear that ivy-planting will have to be postponed.'

Life at this time was worth living. The confidence of our
good Chairman, the cheerful, canny promptings of Milner,
rendered even the dullest routine-work tolerable, so that I
could spend every spare moment, without more than an
occasionable grumble, in trying to humanize our official
catalogue. Another 'one man show' at Carfax, in Feb
ruary 1913, though it did not lead to many sales, was gener
ously received. Drawings now seemed quite as popular as
paintings. Lord Henry Bentinck began to form the group of
North-country mountain landscapes in his study at Underley :
Dr. and Mrs. Michael Sadler, recently translated to Leeds,
acquired a similar taste for Industrial subjects. Their
encouragement and criticism led me to persevere in a field
of work unattractive to Londoners, and were the more sur
prising because the Sadlers themselves were now incessantly
occupied with developing Leeds University, and surrounded
by the menace of Labour disputes, where their high sense of
civic duty was constantly at issue with their pity for genuine
distress.

Returning from Appleby in the previous autumn, I had
been sketching, as usual, from the carriage window, when I
was startled by a remark from a plump little man with
lively dark eyes, sitting just opposite. 'Excuse me: but
you must be C. J. Holmes.' The acute observer introduced
himself as Reginald Farrer, and started to talk. By the time

297

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

we reached St. Pancras, we had discovered so many tastes
in common that I promised to come and see him at Ingle-
borough in the following spring, and try for certain un-
catchable trout in his lake. So there I found myself on a
bitter March morning, with just half-an-hour to fish before
the car came round to take me about. Snow was drifting
over the black waves, but something like a swirl near my
fly gave me hope, and in a short time I was able to run down
to the house with a brace of half-pounders in my net.
Swathed in rugs and coats and scarves we then faced the
elements in a little open car, driving round to Ribblehead
by Stainforth, whence my Swainson ancestors had come,
past a nobly snow-streaked Ingleborough, stopping wherever
a subject for frozen fingers was suggested, and finally return
ing to the house, the lake and to sunshine. But not a rise
could I now entice : the water evidently intended to guard
its reputation henceforth, and we fell back on talking and
walking.

The next day was glorious, and we tramped over the hills
from Troll Gill to Sulber Nick, that miracle of desolation,
chanting absurd verses in abuse of Sophocles, whom we both
disliked, and behaving generally like schoolboys. Farrer,
the professed Buddhist, loved to pass in a moment from the
sublime to the ridiculous, to be as brilliant -and as silly as he
was learned in letters and in botany. His spirits and his
good temper were inexhaustible, and his consideration too.
On our last morning he ran me down to the edge of his
famous rock-garden and back, so that I could just say that
I had seen it, without having to pretend to be interested.
Indeed to me the garden looked just like the usual barren
mixture of earth and stones, without a touch of colour, in
which Alpine botanists discourse of glories to come; though
the stones were larger and piled more grandly than any I had
seen elsewhere. The one remark I made was unlucky.
The mention of Glutton-Brock's garden in Surrey drew down
a sudden outburst of the eternal disrespect of the man who
does things for the man who writes about them.

298

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

Farrer, indeed, for all his lightness of heart and exuber
ance of language, was now preparing for another of his
arduous expeditions to the highlands of China in search of
new flowering plants. He introduced me to chopsticks, to
tea made in 'native fashion, which exhilarates at the moment
but leaves the mind afterwards a perfect blank, and to
Chinese delicacies, like buried eggs, which resemble (when
they are not mouldy) some ancient ethereal cheese. I got
news of him next in the autumn of 1914, from the borders of
Thibet, where he lived precariously between hillmen, who
wanted his blood for disturbing the mountain spirits when
he climbed, and the armies of White Wolf which were
ravaging the plains. c Do you realize, 5 he writes, 'that be
sides the ten thousand rotting dead who still stack the gutted
streets of Taochow (the address for my reply), the air is
poisoned for miles by the carrion of every other living
creature down to cats and dogs and hens? ' And later, when
wintering in peace at Lanchow, while we were in the throes
of the War, he describes his work as c a breathless rush and
scurry for the past three months, pursuing the elusive seed
from pillar to post. Up and down, in and out, over crag
and valley I toiled and lumbered, deciphering the glories of
the spring in the fat pods of the present, which, as often as
not, were empty, or unripe, or unsound, or vanished, or
trampled, or eaten, or hail-battered, by the time I got to
them.' Few men have impressed me more than this merry
soul, whom I met so casually and knew so briefly, this lover
of ease and civilized comfort, who sacrificed them, and
ultimately his own life, to hunt in savage and dangerous
places for the little flowers which now bear his name.

At Allestree, near Derby, Sir Herbert Raphael introduced
me to his fishing, a small stream converted by dams into the
semblance of a river, and well stocked with trout. The
Mayfly was up, but as we passed through Derby on our
way to the water, I noticed that my host bought a dozen
Red Palmers at the local tackle-shop. He was no fool, and
I followed his lead by taking the three left in the box. The

299

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

Mayfly was about in plenty, but I could do nothing with it.
Finally I saw one alight on a broad clear pool just over a
trout. The trout, seemingly puzzled by the apparition,
merely nibbled at its legs, until the Mayfly, sensing danger,
fluttered off for two or three feet, and the trout sank down.
Not until we talked at lunch did light dawn upon me. The
fish, being more than the stream could naturally support,
received artificial food, including chopped horseflesh. That
explained the Red Palmers. The moment I was free, I put
on an extra large one which I happened to have. In two
hours I had taken five brace (six brace was the limit)
weighing 17! Ibs., and returned about as many. Never
have I had such a day. In spite of this artificial feeding, the
brown trout proved lively fighters, the rainbows indefatig
able, though without the cunning of the native breed.
Since my beat was much overgrown, this cunning had scope
for exercise, and the triumph was not always the fisherman's.
By the issue of 'The Tarn and the Lake,' a comparison
between the ways of fishes and of men, my passion for fishing
was now, momentarily, exposed. But in spite of many
notices, as diverse as the politics of its reviewers, the little
book fell flat; perhaps because it neither pretended to teach
tyros to fish, nor flattered the prevalent intellectual social
ism. Fry, for instance, wrote from his Omega Workshops
that I seemed to be e bolstering up people in their natural
beastliness.' Ricketts, with his usual foresight, challenged
my Disraelian view of the Press as an antidote to the Dema
gogue. 'The Press is as great a danger to the Public in its
cooking of opinion and fact as the intellectual trust of the
Jesuits in the i yth century.' How right Time has proved
him to be! Edmund Gosse, on the other hand, found it
'profoundly interesting as an apologue, besides being deli
cately written . . . your experience coincides with my own.'
I solaced my failure with these and similar kind remarks.
Then, many years later, Max Beerbohm, chance-met by the
National Gallery, asked in his whimsical way, why I did not
give up my official life, and write something more like 'The

300

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

Tarn and the Lake'? Finally, when Eric Parker quoted
nearly a page of it in his 'Angler's Garland/ sublimi
feriebam sidera vertice.

The fine head and presence of our Chairman suggested a
portrait medal, for which the Board subscribed. At Oxford
I had made the acquaintance of Sydney Carline, son of a
well-known local painter, himself a modeller of promise.
Carline produced a good likeness, and for the reverse of his
medal designed, in Pisanello fashion, an armadillo, that
being Lord Dillon's telegraphic address as Keeper of the
Tower Armouries. When the bronze casts arrived, the new
metal looked so cheap and common that we did not dare
to distribute them until they had been slightly toned down,
and considerably begrimed, by exposure on the Gallery roof.
Sydney Carline afterwards attracted notice by his pictures
of 'planes fighting among the Italian Alps, but never, I
think, attained quite the same distinction there as in his best
medals.

About the same time we received from Mrs. Henley the
bronze bust of her husband by Rodin, one of the finest of all
Rodin portraits, and heard the first mutterings of the
suffragette tempest. These, while indicating flustered nerves
in some quarters, appeared much too vague for immediate
or overt panic. We merely replaced by less valuable substi
tutes a few of our smaller treasures, which a single fanatic
blow might have damaged irreparably.

The death of Lord Knutsford was felt by us as real per
sonal loss. In spite of his great age, he had tripped about
the Gallery, almost to the last, with the lively step of a young
man, taking the keenest interest in its growth, eager to help
in his modest way towards any fresh purchase, and giving us
always the consideration and the courtesy of a real friend.
Gentle wit and wisdom illuminated his retrospect upon a
long and active life. In boyhood, on a walking tour with
his brother, he had been to visit the famous Jeffrey. But
the house and its grounds looked so imposing, that from
shyness the young visitors hid the carpet bag, which was all

301

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

their luggage, in the bushes by the drive, and got away
without staying there. Six months earlier, the death of my
cousin Francis Rivington reminded me how much I owed .
to him. By inviting me from Oxford to enter his business,
he had saved me, at the cost of some years of discomfort,
from the prospect of lifelong servitude as a third rate school
master ; to the example of his strong intelligence and per
sonality I owed such fragments of common sense and
method as I could now claim. Finally, in December, Francis
Bate retired from the Secretaryship of the New English Art
Club. The dinner, and presentation to him of a drawing
by every member, were tokens of gratitude and admiration
more genuine than such things are apt to be, for with extra
ordinary tact and judgment he had brought the Club
through countless difficulties, until now it had reached
(though we did not know it) the climax of its fortune.
After the War nothing was quite the same. ,

The end of the year 1913 brought two regrettable changes.
The privacy of our house at Ladbroke Grove, with its excel
lent studio, being threatened by a neighbouring invasion, we
left it for less imposing quarters in Pembridge Crescent.
About the same time our landlord at Langton Field gave up
Ms farm, so that almost perfect refuge from the world was
also lost to us. My father-in-law, it is true, quickly found a
substitute, more pleasant to the eye, and near ta his own
house, on the other side of Appleby, but far, too far altogether,
from the fells, the beck, the golf-course and the moor which
had long been our playgrounds.

Since our new abode would not be vacant till the summer,
we spent Easter at Lyme Regis, where the old houses and
tumbled cliffs provided plenty of material for drawings, but
did not somehow inspire paintings in oil. An afternoon's
trout-fishing on the Colne near Sandy Lodge, with Francis
Draper, best of fellows and frame-makers, is another pleasant,
memory of the early summer of 1914. My chief exhibit at
the New English Art Club was The Burning Kiln, developed,
not without effort, from a sketch near Purley. It was bought

302

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

by Dr. Michael Sadler, who presented it some years later
to the Tate Gallery. He also bought my Birches, Clay Cross
from the Club's winter show. Time, I fancy, has muted its
deep French Blues into a rather pleasant gray, but, when I
last saw it, it still seemed the happiest of my efforts in the
Neo-Japanese vein.

At the Gallery we learned, from a portrait by Kneller of
all people, what the modelling of a head in paint really
ought to be. This Henry Sidney proved how great were the
natural gifts of that most unequal painter. We compared
it with portrait after portrait in the Gallery, to find that
only Van Dyck, and occasionally Gainsborough, achieved
the same solidity. A Reynolds was apt, as Max Beerbohm
remarked, to suffer from floating kidney of the face. Max
had come with the idea of getting likenesses of the Trustees
for a group caricature, perhaps a 4 Death of Mr. Bernard
Shaw,* with the Board sitting perplexed before tier upon tier
of Shaw portraits in every conceivable style and medium.
For me, a scribble on the back of an envelope was a suffi
cient memento; but Lord Dillon refused to be sketched,
and so nothing came of the scheme.

The portraits of the Bronte sisters, by their brother Bran-
well, gave us some anxiety. The canvases, discovered rolled
up on the top of a wardrobe, had to be sold for the benefit
of Mrs. Nicholls. As her Trustee, Mr. Reginald Smith, the
Publisher and K.C., was compelled to dispose of them to the
best advantage. What might not America bid for these
remarkable relics? In the end Christie's were asked to value
them, and their figure, fortunately, proved to be just within
our means. It would have been heart-breaking had we failed
to secure at least that profile of Emily Bronte, into which the
very spirit of 'Wuthering Heights' and of her poetry seems
somehow to have passed.

People were not always so patriotic and considerate where
the national collections were concerned. A mining magnate
calmly asked us 40,000 for what had cost him 10,000 five
years earlier, as I happened to know. A peer, much in the

303

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

public eye and the Divorce Court,, left a portrait with us,
for sale : then, so soon as we had identified it with a famous
historical personage, took it off to Christie's. There, how
ever, it looked rather insignificant, and through our staunch
ally, Mr. Ernest Leggatt, we succeeded in getting it for
exactly one-quarter of the price which we had intended to
offer the owner.

Rather later we had a further lesson; this time from a
venerable Duke. On a certain Friday, Milner and I were
asked to lunch, to be shown the pictures. Among them was
one bearing a very great name ; it was really an important
specimen of a less famous master. When asked about its
quality and value, I was promised, as usual, that if ever it
came to be sold, the Nation should have the first refusal.
On that condition I gave the noble owner the correct name
and a generous valuation. On the Monday following I
happened to meet a well-known dealer in the street. He

stopped me and said, 'Oh, the Duke of has just offered

me his picture, saying you valued it at 12,000. Do you
reaUy think it is worth quite so much? 3 Humbler folk could
generally be trusted, and the much-abused dealer almost
invariably.

Public affairs now began to cast a grave shadow upon
both private and official activities. A crowded, brilliant
reception in Downing Street brought us within sight and
hearing of personages whose names were become household
words, in connexion with the Marconi scandal. At Euston,
when about to start for the wedding of my school-fellow
Peel, much pleased that he should have remembered me
after so many years, I saw poor Lord Weardale, most genial
of Trustees, banged on the head by a furious suffragette
who had mistaken him for Mr. Asquith. Then came the
mutilation of the 'Rokeby Velazquez 5 in the National
Gallery. We had to close the Portrait Gallery for a fort
night, to consider measures of precaution and defence, to
hang the best pictures out of harm's way and to protect
small works with Triplex glass. Other troubles are sug-

304

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

gested by a note-book entry of March 3oth : e Resignation
of French, etc. Asquith War Minister. Burned my clothes
with pipe.' Further suffragette warnings came in May,
glasses being smashed in the National Gallery. Finally in
July, while we all were wondering what would happen next
in Ireland, our portrait of Carlyle by Millais was attacked.
A plucky student. Miss Mimpriss, and Wilson, now Head
Attendant at the Gallery, seized the woman and prevented
further damage. Then, just a week after we had attended
the trial of the case at Bow Street, Austria declared war on
Serbia.

The action of Germany at this moment came to me as a
complete surprise. In the past I had often done business
with Germans, and found them both honest and pre
eminently sensible. That their feeling towards us might be
changing had been indicated two years before, at a lunch
with F. R. Martin, where I met the afterwards famous Von
Kiihlmann, Councillor of their London Embassy. When
inquiring about affairs in England, Von Kiihlmann took
such evident satisfaction in each sign of our national weak
ness or divided counsels as to prove him less hostile than
contemptuous. That contempt we seemed to have been
steadily earning ever since. The crisis over the House of
Lords, Labour unrest, financial laxity, fashionable extrava
gance, the suffragette agitation, the menace of both mutiny
and civil war in Ireland, all these pointed to the automatic
and speedy decline of Britain, if only the warring parties
were left alone to cut each other's throats. Germany, now
at the height of her commercial prosperity and armed to
the teeth, would in that case succeed, without effort or
serious interference, to the leadership of the world.

It seemed incredible that a nation so sensible, far-seeing
and well-informed, as I believed Germany to be, could fail
to recognize that everything was to be gained by waiting,
at least until our internal troubles had come to a head.
Even the pleasant and friendly Prince Lichnowsky was just
the Ambassador whom a subtle government would choose

305

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

to maintain the appearance of disinterested friendship until
it was time to unmask. Stunned by the premature out
burst, I quite failed to see in the hubris which scorned our
futile efforts for peace an example, on a colossal scale, of
the one sin which the gods never seem to overlook ; though
their punishment is apt to be painfully slow in coming, and
to sacrifice a needless number of innocents along with the
culprit. But that is quite in the best tragic tradition.

So bemused were we, that we failed also to see that this
war meant the shelving, if not the destruction, of all that we
had tried to do to improve and to popularize the Gallery.
We actually continued for several months to discuss, and to
complete, the plans for an immediate extension of our build
ing by the Office of Works. Funds for this extension had
been obtained from the Treasury with the utmost difficulty :
we had soon to abandon all hope of seeing the work carried
out. The dangers of attack from the air became the para
mount concern. To meet them we constructed 'bomb-
proofs/ of a sort, in our basements, where, protected by
huge barriers of sandbags, by wire netting to catch splinters,
by half-walled-up doorways to prevent flooding, and by
attendants constantly practised in fire-drill, all the more
precious and portable pictures in the collection might lie
safe from anything but a direct hit. The engineering
problem was rather fun: not so all the human problems
connected with it. The quiet guardianship of our happy
willing staff came to an end. Metamorphosed into squads
of special constables, incessantly inspected and drilled, on
duty night and day, the attendants had troubles of their
own, for their paymasters failed at first to see that abnormal
hours of service involved abnormal expenses for men whose
homes were miles away in the suburbs.

When all this was happily settled, at the end of 1915, an
invasion from Whitehall called for fresh upheavals. To help
to relieve the congestion caused by the forming of new
Departments, the Trustees consented to lend the Gallery to
the Office of Works for the use of the Separation Allow-

306

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

ances department; obtaining, in virtue of their voluntary
surrender, terms of the very best. Smoking was, of course,
absolutely forbidden, indeed so completely was the Gallery
safeguarded in every detail, that we had, in a few weeks,
to receive, and somehow to satisfy, a deputation from the
lady clerks, praying for a place where they might boil their
tea-kettles.

On the declaration of war I had placed myself immedi
ately at the disposal of the Treasury. Since my Lords had
no immediate use for me, I followed the lead of Binyon and
Hind by joining the Volunteer Civil Force. The aim of this
body was to provide a sort of auxiliary Police Reserve. At
the Headquarters in Rochester Row, our oddly assorted
company gathered and drilled, practising shooting in its
spare time with '22 rifles and revolvers. The rabbits at
Langton Field had made the former weapon familiar. The
revolver was a novelty; ammunition was cheap, and the
example of Milner, a good revolver-shot, stimulated my
practice. Over my drilling I was less happy. I could not
recover the stick-fed smartness of my Canterbury days ; yet
for our quaint evolutions in and about Vincent Square I
soon had reason to be thankful.

Lord Dillon, indignant at being rejected as a recruit on
account of his seventy years, and my friend Charles ffoulkes,
then a C.P.O. in the R.N.V.R., introduced rne to that
service, in which I enrolled as A.B. for Anti-Aircraft work.
Being allotted to a searchlight squad on the roof of the
Goods Station at Nine Elms, from which it was practically
impossible to get home in the small hours, I was very kindly
provided by Charles Aitken with a bed in the Tate Gallery
basement, and hot cocoa. On our airy platform, the frost
and bitter wind could be met with Bovril, rum and duplicate
sweaters ; the cold, the darkness and the monotonous vigil
ance being occasionally relieved by night alarms, or com
bined effects of searchlight, snow and lightning. Our old-
fashioned oxycalcium light needed careful watching ; other
wise there was little that called for more than common

307

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

patience, except the occasional contempt of some young
embusque for a senior. Harrison, secretary of the Royal
Society, was my particular chum on the station. In years
he must almost have rivalled Sydney Glover, once on my
staff at the ' Burlington Magazine/ who enlisted at the age
of fifty-nine, fought in the Dardanelles and gained a com
mission.

In January 1915 I was one of those detailed for special
service at Sandringham, with gunners from the R.H.A. and
a detachment of Guards, during the King's visit. Owing to
some misunderstanding no quarters were available when we
arrived. I found rather a comic billet with some breeders
of champion pigs, the best part of their cottage being
crammed nearly to the ceiling with the prizes they had won,
from a piano to a hip-bath. Unluckily all they could find
to eat was a scrap of cold bacon and a little bread : the
village shop had been cleaned right out. Next day, however,
the King provided us with a noble mess at the West Newton
Club; Mr. Gallagher, the vicar, proved a paragon of
hospitality, and the Misses Wolfe sallied out in the bitter
night bringing cocoa and cigarettes to the sentry at Sandring-
ham Church.

When the time came for his two hours' relief, that sentry-
turned out of the cold into the gunners' crowded tent, lay
down in the mud by the tent flap (where some kind neigh
bour might spread a wet, filthy blanket over his legs)>
dropped fast asleep at once, feeling as warm as toast, and
caught neither rheumatism nor even a common cold. The
gunners were less lucky; five of them died of pneumonia.
My opposite number among the gunner sentries was rather
a dear youth. We used to extend our beats as the night
drew on, till we could exchange a word and a cigarette.
Only once did I feel a qualm in his company. We were out
for a walk together, and he suggested that we might brighten
existence by 'picking up ' a girl ; a search which I managed
to divert towards a little public-house, and to finish in cold,
watery beer.

308

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

The senior service had to keep its end up in the presence
of the army, so, in the intervals of night duty, we were
marched off to remote corners behind woods, to be drilled,
and drilled, and drilled by our indefatigable commander,
Lieutenant Pink. Charging with the bayonet was the thing
in which I failed worst, puffing a hundred yards behind my
long-legged juniors. Our second-in-command knew more
of novel-writing than of practical drill. He was marching
us back in fours when the track, and our progress, was
stopped by a wicket-gate. We solemnly marked time in
front of it, awaiting the order 'Form two deep' and its
sequel. There was a long pause, and then e Halt ! Dismiss ! *
It was a good thing none of the Guards were about. We had
been held up to them (they were young recruits) as models
by their Colonel.

The King came to inspect our ramshackle searchlight,
which chose that precise moment for casting off an essential
supply tube from its nozzle. In consequence I had to greet
His Majesty with my hinder parts, as I knelt on the lorry
floor, holding the connexion together with my hands, and
praying that my comfortable brown boots, hastily blacked
over a week before in view of this expedition, should not
catch his professional eye.

At the very last moment 1 came nearer still to ruining our
reputation. We had to march to Wolferton early on a black
rainy morning. I had just got ready, when one of the pests
of billets caught me by the calf. Unshipping the essential
garments, I dealt with the intruder, by the light of a gutter
ing candle-stump, and rushed off to the rendezvous. As we
slung along the road, the dawn slowly came, and revealed
that I was wearing only one gaiter. And there was to be a
parade at the station, for the Guards Colonel, before we
entrained ! Shifted, for concealment, into the rear rank, I
awaited the event in terror. Fortunately we produced an
extra c slap-up' 'Present Arms!'; even Pink was pleased,
and when all was over, his chauffeur, beckoning from his
car, produced the missing gaiter. My practical host had

39

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

found it and run round with it to headquarters. Bless him
and his pigs !

At the end of March the R-.N.A.S. was reorganized, but
the new. conditions of service were so wholly incompatible
with any work at the Gallery that I had to take my discharge.
Never, for many years, had I felt so thoroughly hard and
fit. After this bout of exercise in winter weather, the long,
heavy, old-fashioned rifle served out to us weighed no more
than a light twelve-bore; a route-march of a dozen miles
in the mud, after a whole night on sentry duty, left one
densely stupid but not over-tired ; aches and pains, internal
or external, were almost unknown; lying down on a bed
and getting a hot bath became extraordinary pleasures.
Before that time I never had a hot bath in the morning : I
have never enjoyed a cold one since.

To help the various War charities, I was now permitted by
my Trustees to give 'opinions ' on pictures for a fee, and so
made one or two hundred pounds for the Officers' Families
Fund, and/or any other similar causes which my clients
might wish to benefit. Belgian refugees set other problems.
My wife was particularly horrified by the story of the little
girl whose hands had been cut off, and insisted on adopting
this poor victim of the German advance. The Relief Com
mittee set to work to trace her and bring her to us, and then
discovered, to my intense relief, that she resembled the
Russian troop-trains.

In November 1914 I crossed to Dublin, to deliver the
Hermione Lectures at Alexandra College. Under a drizzle,
which lasted the whole week of my stay, the city looked
squalid and bedraggled. But the traditional Irish hospi
tality was unchanged. At Alexandra College I met Dermod
O'Brien, 'George A. Birmingham/ and Maurice Headlam
of the Treasury, who knew me by having acquired my Eton
arm-chair. The Duncans, of the Modern Gallery (she
hoped, I think, to make a proselyte for Ireland, he was a
delightful Gallio), entertained me royally, and introduced
me to the Abbey Theatre, where I met W. B. Yeats. Having

310

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

admired his poems ever since I first read them, in Henley's
'Scots Observer/ I was delighted to find him not only a
poet, but one of the most practical of men ; a patriot but no
wild optimist, who foresaw no permanent future for his
native island. Any established government, however com
pletely Irish, would always throw up a rebellious minority,
to oppose it, to destroy it, and to be itself destroyed after
securing power.

'The Book of Kells ' seemed so marvellous that I trembled,
during the subsequent siege of the place, lest a chance shell
or outbreak of fire should destroy this miracle of a vanished
Irish monastic refinement. The mediaeval antiquities, too,
were most impressive, so was the Poussin Entombment in the
Gallery, where I spent many hours making notes and sketch
ing portraits. At first I could not get a likeness. The Irish
facial proportions were quite different from the English, and
needed a different thumb-nail formula. In the true native
type, the broad nostrils come in the middle of the face, the
upper lip is immense, the jaw and cheek-bones broad, the
forehead low, as of some race, pre-Celtic, aboriginal, almost
anthropoid.

After paying a duty call at the grave of Swift with its
grim epitaph, I came back, sketching from the boat and
the train as my custom was. In consequence I was arrested
at Euston as a spy, and could not convince a persistent
detective and stolid railway officials of my harmless identity.
In vain did I produce letters and cards ; in vain did I ask
them to telephone to Vine Street, where Superintendent
Sutherland was a personal friend. The spy-fever was at its
height, and only the exhumation from the very bottom of
my kit-bag of lantern-slides, lecture notes, and the Dublin
Press notices of them, at last induced my captors to let
me go.

About this time I was urged by one or two influential
friends to put my name down for the Royal Academy. I
felt bound to decline, since election (had it ever taken place)
might have prejudiced my claim to impartiality, at a time

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

when the Chantrey Bequest was still an incompletely settled
problem. Gimmerton Churchyard, exhibited in the spring
of 1915, excited Glutton-Brock, who discovered it to be
'exactly like Wuthering Heights/ without realizing that the
novel was its 'onlie begetter/ It is now in Lord Blanes-
burgh's collection. Lectures on Michelangelo and Raphael
at the Royal Institution, with the making of two tiny
portrait-books for Lee- Warner, c The Great Victorians 3 and
'The Great Elizabethans/ were other outside activities:
Mestrovic at South Kensington provided the great artistic
impression a Michelangelo, of another race, who made
Alfred Stevens look like an eclectic, and Rodin like a
Parisian.

A children's fancy-dress dance and supper in January
1916 entailed the setting out of all our little store of silver
and plate, which was neatly cleared off in the small hours
by a burglar, together with my poor Chinese bronzes.
Nothing was insured. But in March an illustration in a
picture-paper revealed the bronzes as part of the loot dis
covered in a thieves' 'treasure house* at Chiswick, and we
actually got back everything, except two salt-spoons which
our honest parlour-maid could not positively identify. The
Burlington Fine Arts Club was about to hold a Chinese
Exhibition, and asked for the loan of the stolen bronzes,
but did not require them, since the archaic specimens from
recent Chinese excavations, which they were able to exhibit
for the first time, were vastly superior in quality and beauty
to almost everything with which collectors had previously
been content.

My fishing on the Windrush and the Colne in 1915 had
been rather successful. My single day on the former river
in 1916 was a total blank; a gale lashed the water into
waves which not even the smallest chub could face. The
blank, however (as at Hawes in 1909), proved the forerunner
of things totally unexpected.

Intercourse with my colleagues at the National Gallery
over questions of finance, administration and plans for our

312

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

extension on the St. George's Barracks site, had been con
stant and friendly. As Holroyd's troubles increased and his
health declined, our relations became more and more inti
mate. His difficulties over the exhibition of the Lane
pictures, his anxiety about the Masaccio Madonna and other
contested purchases, now took me almost every day to
Trafalgar Square for some informal consultation. Though
Holroyd himself kept honourable silence, it was impossible
not to be aware that matters were handled there with little
consideration for his views or feelings. The tears which I
once surprised in the Director's eyes, as he came out from
the Board Room, were further evidence that all was not
well with him, or with the place. His term of office would
expire in the summer of 1916 ; the state of his heart already
made continuous exertion impossible, and gossip as to his
successor began, as usual, to be bandied about.

My work took me frequently to the Treasury, and having
not the least desire to put my head into the lion's den next
door, I told my lords and masters plainly that I was not a
candidate for the vacancy. I replied to a second inquiry
by recommending the head of another institution, as the
most suitable man (so indeed he was) for handling difficult
personages and artistic problems. Then this very man, my
chosen candidate, came to see me. A huge offer, it appeared,
had been made for the famous Titians at Bridgewater House :
only by raising an equivalent or greater sum could they be
saved for England. His solution was to stand aside himself,
and press for the appointment as Director of a business man,
a friend of us both, whose ability in worldly matters ranked
high, and who was genuinely interested in art. Though
neither a painter nor a trained critic, his deficiencies in
technical knowledge could be made up by the speaker, or
by me, since I worked next door.

This proposal to sacrifice scholarship to expediency to a

momentary crisis which might pass (as it soon did pass)
was so contrary to the sound principles of Gallery manage
ment upon which we had all been agreed and eloquent for

3*3

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

years, that I was profoundly shocked, and said so, I fear,
with some heat. The Board at Trafalgar Square, without
the direction of assured critical knowledge, would inevitably
remain amateurish, hesitating and ineffective. Yet, if I
could not, on principle, approve the scheme, I would not,
from friendship, oppose it. Having no axe of my own to
grind, I at once wrote semi-officially, to the Treasury,
reiterating my decision not to be a candidate. What others
might do was no concern of mine. Claude Phillips was,
doubtless, too old for the appointment ; Roger Fry, drenched
by Post-Impressionism and immersed in his Omega busi
ness, now seemed, by general consent, to be out of the
running; but Ricketts, Cockerell, Martin Conway and
Whitworth Wallis all appeared to be men who, in their
very different ways, might be able to work with the National
Gallery Trustees and guide them sensibly.

Meanwhile the Bridgewater peril was considered at con
ferences between Lords Curzon, Lansdowne and Plymouth,
with Ricketts, Witt and MacColl. We agreed that the most
hopeful defence would be to raise a capital sum, by selling
some of the 'duplicate' Dutch pictures at Trafalgar Square
and part of our immense collection of works by Turner.
The necessary powers would have to be got by a Parlia
mentary Bill ; the necessary schedules and valuations were
prepared by Ricketts and myself. This experience con
firmed my belief that Ricketts was really about the best man
now left available for the National Gallery. His acute con-
noisseurship, his ready wit, even his little affectations of
manner, would have forced attention and carried weight
with the Trustees, while the 'splendidly efficient 3 Collins
Baker, as Keeper and Secretary, would have saved him from
the worst of the routine work. Other claims, however, were
being put forward, so I had to keep my preferences to
myself and let events take their course, occasional impatience
to put in a word being restrained by the wise counsel of
Milner, Collins Baker and Harold Child.
One July afternoon, Lord Ribblesdale appeared in the

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

Board Room of the Portrait Gallery. Though always
friendly, his fine presence and curt, sudden humour rendered
him slightly formidable as a Trustee, and called far caution
in any exchange of words. His ostensible business was a
picture of Lunardi and his balloon. That done with, .he
sat, nonchalant, on a corner of the big table, and asked me
why I was not a candidate for the National Gallery. He
was not alone in wishing to know my reasons for standing
aside. I gave them with equal frankness. I was very happy
indeed at the Portrait Gallery; I should not be so, in
existing conditions, at Trafalgar Square, as he would realize.
Moreover, I did not wish to stand in the way of any friend.
If one candidate did not satisfy the Prime Minister, as he
seemed to imply, there were other good men to choose
from. I named several, but without making much apparent
impression. At last he went off, telling me to think it over
again.

Just a week later, when I was alone and about to leave
the Gallery, he marched in (no sauntering this time) and
went straight to the point. The Prime Minister, being a
scholar himself, wished to know why a scholar should be
unwilling to consider such a post as the Directorship. Since
I had not taken the hint he had given me on the previous
Monday, he had now to order me to put in writing my
reasons for declining to apply, and to send them to him
that evening in the form of a letter. I could speak quite
optaly; my confidence would be respected.

Naturally flattered, and horribly embarrassed, I sat down,
when he had gone, to express my present happiness, my
doubts and fears about the other Board v 'Holroyd's tears
could not be forgotten), the claims of other candidates and
the improbability of my getting all the support from above
which I thought the Director needed. Feeling, however,
that some consideration was due to those who had paid me
the compliment of inquiry, I added, 'But if the powers that
be thought me really the best man for a very difficult job,
and gave me the backing it requires, these hesitations would

315

SELF AND PARTNERS [1912-1916

not count; I would accept the post, and should hope in
time to derive some amusement from it. 9

I was mistaken in thinking that the impudence of the
closing words might save me, at the cost of my reputation
for good sense, from the perilous honour. Three days later
a telephone message from Downing Street told me that I
was appointed. 'Should I have the full support of Downing
Street and the Treasury? 5 'Yes. 5 There was nothing for
it but thanks and acceptance, on that understanding.

The next morning I had to travel to Lancashire, for the
wedding of my cousin, Adela Dickson, at Garstang. Our
host for the occasion was my old friend the Rev. John
Wilson ( c Willy 3 ) Pedder, angling mentor of boyhood, pioneer
of the Windrush, and owner of Bortree Tarn near Lakeside,
where I had meditated over the ways of pike and perch.
After breakfast on Saturday, another old fisherman friend,
the gardener William, produced the very bamboo pole we
had used there thirty years before, with a tin of worms, and
down I went once again to the turbid Wyre. At a familiar
corner I caught neither trout nor sea-trout, but a gudgeon,
a fluke, a large minnow and a small eel, while a rival angler
on the opposite bank got a quarter-pound chub. When, in
due course, we reached the church, a beaming uncle
appeared to congratulate me ; the National Gallery appoint
ment had been announced in the 'Times 5 that morning.
Feeling that the thing was no certainty until conditions had
been agreed, I had said little or nothing about recent events
except to my wife. She, with her wonted practical sense,
warned me on no account to exchange my permanency as
a Civil Servant for a temporary post however distinguished.
And at Downing Street, on the following (Sunday) morn
ing, I found that the conditions were not agreed ; far from
it. The Treasury next day were equally dubious on the
financial question. So I stayed at the Portrait Gallery while
the discussions went on, answering, it is true, the current
queries from Trafalgar Square and countless letters of con
gratulation, but anticipating all the time that a withdrawal

316

1912-1916] THE NATIONAL PORTRAIT GALLERY

of the announcement would be needed. At the end of ten
days, it was settled that I should retain my rights as a Civil
Servant, so that I should not be liable to dismissal at the
end of five years ; also that the Trafalgar Square Board
should be leavened by the immediate appointment of our
friend Witt as a Trustee. But any administrative reform,
even an improvement in the Director's powers of purchase,
was not to be had.

I therefore declined the appointment, and said I would
stay at the Portrait Gallery. Downing Street smiled : c That
is impossible now. The door is closed. We have just
offered the Directorship to Milner.' And when I got back
gloomily to the Board Room, there, sure enough, stood a
blushing Milner, and a laughing Lord Dillon who greeted
me with c It's no good : you can't get out of it. 3 Milner,
like the noble fellow he was, seeing my rueful face, at once
said he would decline promotion if I really wished to stay.
But the die was cast; and pleasure in Milner's succession
(which I feared the authorities would never approve)
prevented me from worrying over-much about my failure
to escape, or to reform, Trafalgar Square.

Lord Dillon told me afterwards that Lord Ribblesdale had
called to see him about my appointment, and spoke so
warmly of his interest in me and my future that, said Lord
Dillon, c I felt I had never really known him before or seen
him to such advantage.' When I had a chance of thanking
Lord Ribblesdale, I felt bound to apologize for the flippant
ending of that fatal letter. c Not at all, 9 said he. c When that
was read out, they all exclaimed, "Why, this is the man
for us.' 3 3

317

CHAPTER XVII
THE NATIONAL GALLERY (i)

(1916-1918)

Gallery troubles ; first Board Meetings ; Lord Curzon and
Lord Plymouth; Parliamentary Bills; the Lane Bequest; a
dinner-party ; spiritualism ; air-raids ; loan of a Tube station ;
an outrage ; designs for war medals ; war pictures ; Bellini's
Bacchanal and other paintings; the Degas Sale in Paris;
Arnold Bennett and Lord Curzon; Lord Lansdowne elected
Chairman,

MY fate had been decided on August 2nd, but there were
many things to be cleared up at the Portrait Gallery, many
to be considered at the National Gallery, so for five days I
lived between the two places, a harried amphibian. The
first sight of the Director's room at Trafalgar Square caused
my -heart to sink. Neglected and forlorn, with bare, dis
coloured walls; a tattered carpet as dirty as the floor, a few
odd bits of shabby lodging-house furniture, and the frowsy
camp-bed on which poor Holroyd used to rest, the place
made a pitiable contrast to the comfort, the dignity, of the
Board Room I was leaving. Summoning, therefore, all my
courage, the stout Head Attendant, the ladylike House
keeper, and the Office of Works, I demanded a clearance,
cleanliness and appropriate furniture, settling myself mean
while in the room of the absent Collins Baker to deal with
the countless things which called for immediate attention.

First came the drafting of the two Bills empowering the
Trustees to sell 'redundant 3 Turners and other pictures.
These had to be discussed with the Parliamentary draftsman,
Sir F. F. LiddeU, at the Treasury; each verbal emendation
being reported to Lord Curzon and others. The geography
of the upper floor of the building, occupied partly by second-
rate pictures, partly by Admiralty clerks, was already

318

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

familiar, but the vast subterranean labyrinths, in which the
more precious things were stacked, needed hours of grimy
exploration. Then Ambrose, the veteran clerk who had
served with Burton and Wornum and the younger Eastlake,
would produce documents bearing on past Directors' diffi
culties, as a pleasing intimation of the treatment I might
expect. Mr. J. P. Heseltine would call and gossip for hours ;
Mr. Benson would come, apparently to find out how in the
world I had got myself appointed, while down in the
repairing-room lay our famous Palma-Titian portrait of
A Poet, a sorry spectacle, a mere skin of blistered paint.
Having been successfully detached from its old canvas, it
had now refused three times to stick to a new one, and was,
as a last desperate resource, about to be pressed on to a
panel. In addition, I had to deal single-handed with every
kind of letter, question and visitor, to report on pictures at
Christie's and at Agnew's for various Trustees, and to see
how the whole Layard Collection, just received, could be
stored, put in order and provisionally catalogued. When,
at the end of a week, I went up for my Civil Service medical
examination, the doctor at first would not pass me. Only
when I had stripped to the skin did he decide that I might
stay the course. A few days later, when Collins Baker was
coming back from leave, I escaped to Appleby for a month
of bad, stormy fishing.

Though Collins Baker was less optimistic, I looked forward
without much apprehension to my first Board Meeting.
Such Trustees as I had met had shown themselves polite, if
not friendly, and I trusted that my experience at the Portrait
Gallery would carry us through safely. Being a bit of a
precisian, I was chiefly anxious to find out how much the
Director was really allowed to do. By what self-imposed
limits was the Board accustomed to modify the terms of
Lord Rosebery's Minute of 1894? Under it the Director
seemed liable to complete suppression at any moment, or in
any connexion, by a majority vote. My first three Board
Meetings were to settle this question, and to establish the

319

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

pleasant working relations' which lasted almost to the end
of Lord Curzon's life, and of this humble narrative; but the
settlement was not effected without some rather amazing
preludes.

At this point Truth and Charity, my twin stretcher-
bearers, threaten to break step, casting uneasy glances as
Justice, her balances clanging, moves firmly to the side of
the one, while Propriety, finger on official lip, takes the
other's arm. 'What a chance! 5 twitters the shade of
Trollope ; from afar a bleeding victim cries, * No weakness ! '
c You dare to threaten us? 3 growls the Wolf to the Lamb.
The clash of thought recalls the hermit of Rapallo. What
would his maxim be? Soyez tranquille,' perhaps? After
all, a short quotation from evidence given before the Royal
Commission in 1928 will summarize the facts; one or two
paragraphs will indicate the atmospheric environment, 1 and
that is enough for History.

c At the National Portrait Gallery the Director was a
professional adviser to the Board, an administrator of the
Gallery, whom the Trustees united to help and encourage.
At Trafalgar Square his opinion seemed neither to be asked
nor expected. As the controversies between Lord Lans-
downe and Sir Edward Poynter were on record, and as the
breakdown of Sir Charles Holroyd under the system had
just occurred, I saw that this attitude was not personal to
myself, but was the tradition of the place. Lord Plymouth
acted as mediator in the discussions which ensued, and an
assurance was obtained from Lord Curzon that in 99 per
cent, of the technical matters discussed the Board would
accept the Director's opinion.'

1 It has been suggested in more than one quarter, and not merely in jest,
that some unquiet spirit, some aura of Discord, some emanation, perhaps, of
ancient conflict, haunts the National Gallery; that it can be exorcized by a
good and brave man, like Lord Plymouth ; and that it can return when the
salutary influence is withdrawn. I am no believer in such objective psychic
invasions. Yet there must be something queer about the place. Only a few
months ago I learned the experience of a most distinguished Trustee, a veteran
maitre (Formes of debate, a leader in every grave political contest for twenty
years or more. Not one of his major activities took so much out of him as a
Board Meeting at Trafalgar Square.

320

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

If only the Commission of 1928 could have put Lord
Curzon's eirenicon into formal shape, as I urged them to do,
it would have solved the chief problem of the Gallery in the
simplest possible manner. And Lord Curzon deserves credit
both for introducing it at a time when the Director's very
existence was being studiously ignored, and for keeping to it
afterwards, at the cost, I am sure, of some internal qualms.

Lord Plymouth's mediation was no less timely, courageous
and effective. Since the Trustees had not been consulted
about my appointment, the Minute recording it was natur
ally unpopular. Baker was severely reprimanded for inter
preting it correctly ; two Ministers were deputed to obtain
its rescission from Mr. Asquith. c And if, Mr. Holmes, 3 added
one noble neighbour, c the Prime Minister, as we anticipate,
accepts our view of the matter, your friends at the Treasury
will doubtless be able to provide you with some other
occupation.'

The deputation was unsuccessful. Hoping to prevent the
reopening of a dangerous topic, I rashly put in, 'Surely it's
a case ofsolvuntur risu tabulae? Couldn't we now get on with
our real business? ' ; forgetting, in my haste, the sting in the
Horatian context. Lord Curzon, sitting opposite, turned
full red ; then the corners of his mouth lifted and twitched ;
he was suppressing a laugh at his own expense. He had
proved himself a man to respect, possibly even to like.

Baker now pointed out, with equal courage and dignity,
that his own humiliation had been no solitary injustice:
it would hardly be too much to say that the breakdown of
the late Director's health was due to what might be termed
the electrical atmosphere of this Board Room.' Protests,
denials, excuses followed, till an appeal was made to Lord
Plymouth. That honest gentleman, much embarrassed,
replied that there was only too much truth in what had been
said as to the way in which the late Director had felt his
treatment by the Board. 'And since you have appealed to
me, 5 he concluded, c let me entreat the Board that this may
be the last of these deplorable scenes/ To that there could

321

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

be no reply, and the proceedings ended quietly. Lord
Plymouth's intercession had done its work. The moral
effect of it lasted for some time after his untimely death, and
the first of my volumes on the National Gallery is dedicated
to his memory, for, without the confidence and good feeling
which his presence introduced, the activities of the place
during the next five years must have been sadly cramped.
His share in the work of reconstruction deserves to rank with,
if not above, Lord Curzon's.

So surprising were these debates that I followed them
spell-bound, with a little anxiety, much sympathy for my
colleague, and then with complete political disillusion. For
I was a Conservative born and bred, nurtured upon the
solid old "Standard, 3 confirmed in my faith by intercourse
with the great gentlemen at the Portrait Gallery. Now, in
a flash, I saw what years of provocation must have led up to
the Parliament Act. My titular idols had revealed feet of
rather ugly clay, and were clearly no objects for veneration.
Common sense forbade any transfer to the narrowing taber
nacles of Liberalism. To plunge into the froth of Socialism
was absurd. A Conservative, of sorts, I must remain ; but
a devotee no longer. It was just as well, perhaps ; a Civil
Servant has no business with party politics.

In fairness to the Board, it must be added that the circum
stances were exceptional. The War just then was imposing
a heavy strain upon everyone, particularly upon those in
great positions. My unexpected appointment doubtless
upset some calculations; the memory of ancient criticisms
of the Gallery in the 'Burlington Magazine' may still have
rankled ; certain recent Press notices, hailing my appearance
as a presage of reform, may have roused further suspicion :
any or all of these causes would tend to aggravate the tradi
tional practice of keeping the Director rather more strictly
in his place than was the custom elsewhere. Altogether, in
obtaining almost immediate freedom from the chief of our
disabilities without incurring much ill-will, we were un
commonly lucky.

322

G. H. COLLINS BAKER, 1932
After a drawing by Francis Dodd, R.A.

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

We had anyhow little time for worrying: current affairs
kept us too busy. Baker's unselfish energy relieved me of
more than half my labours ; his dry, affectionate humour
lightened all the rest, instinctive friendship being cemented
by our common danger. Now that Montague House,
Grosvenor House and Bridgewater House were being
- evacuated, for use as extra Government offices, the valuation,
reception and storage of a large part of their pictorial con
tents interfered considerably with our work on the Layard
Collection, and other business proper to the Gallery. The
Bridgewater pictures gave us the most trouble, since one of
them developed blisters when transferred to our cellars, and
the resultant claim for compensation had to be argued and
settled with the Office of Works. Such technical questions,
indeed, are best settled out of court. About this time the
pleadings of a famous counsel in another claim, with which
we were indirectly concerned, proved so strangely at issue
with his client's interest that they were referred by the
solicitor to a higher authority. c Was he drunk? ' promptly
asked the latter. e No, it was only eleven in the morning,'
was the solicitor's reply. But the expensive result had to be
accepted in silence ; the offender was too eminent for open
protest.

The Trustees, meanwhile, were embarrassed by a staring
portrait of Lord Kitchener ( c the most over-rated man of our
time' one strong dissentient dared to say), which they were
ultimately compelled by outside pressure to accept for
exhibition, in defiance of all precedent. Then, with Sir
Cecil Smith and G. F, Hill, I was engaged for some two years
in settling competitions or designs for the Scroll and Plaque
presented to the Next-of-Kin to the Fallen, and for the
various war medals and badges. Our little triumvirate
worked in such perfect harmony that the only trials to our
patience came when well-considered plans were patched
and mutilated by semi-public or official committees.

The immediate nightmare, however, was our Parlia
mentary Bill. To sell pictures which the Nation really could

323

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

spare, in order to be able to buy the pictures which ought
to remain in England, was sound enough in theory. But in
practice it was difficult to carry any such idea to an effective
conclusion without seeming to encroach upon the rights of
testators, a point on which my friend Claude Phillips, and
his chief Lord Burnham, displayed uncompromising hos
tility. Lord D'Abernon was to introduce the Bill in the
House of Lords. My preparation of the notes for his speech,
at the cost of infinite labour, corrections and talk, resulted
in such a sequence of commonplaces that he, very sensibly,
discarded them all in favour of his own native powers of
persuasion.

Baker and I were naturally admitted to hear the debate.
The vigour of expression which we had found so hard to
endure was not, it appeared, a monopoly of our Board
Room. Lord Burnham, leading the Opposition with no
little spirit and eloquence, received a dressing-down from
Lord Curzon which made everybody smile, but was not
calculated to reconcile one whose command of publicity
rendered him really formidable. Personally, I picked up
sundry useful periphrases and Parliamentary turns of speech,
which afterwards made an invaluable jam for conveying the
powder of crude fact to my dignified colleagues. The easy
monosyllables of the Portrait Gallery style had evidently
been too familiar, too lacking in respect for a different place
and very different persons.

At this time the first symptoms of trouble over Sir Hugh
Lane's Bequest began to show. Sir Joseph Duveen's gift of
a modern Foreign Gallery, by fulfilling the conditions of
Lane's will, had made the legal position safe for England.
Lane's friends and relatives, however, maintained that
Dublin had been his true love to the end, and that his jeal
wishes would not be carried out unless London ceded his
French pictures to the city which had flouted him. His
aunt, Lady Gregory, put the case to Lord Curzon, who
came one day to the Gallery to dictate a reply. Presently
he embarked upon a paragraph of some complexity. Our

324

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

gentle, willing typist, pausing in her shorthand, looked up at
him, pink and doubtful. Lord Curzon repeated his period.
Miss Ruse listened, blushed scarlet and finally ejaculated,
c Please, Lord Curzon, it isn't grammar. 5 I hastened to
explain that it was a dependent sentence and quite correct,
while Lord Curzon sat back and rocked with laughter.

My most interesting social experience was an evening at
Lord D'Abernon's, at Foley House, a day or two after Mr.
Lloyd George had succeeded Mr. Asquith as Prime Minister.
Mrs. Asquith happened to be my neighbour at dinner, and
the qualities to which she owed her exceptional fascination
quickly became evident. The brilliance of her talk was only
equalled by its transparent candour. In half-an-hour I had
learned more about Downing Street realities than in all the
rest of my life. One point which struck me was the immense
influence then wielded by the popular Press. Mr. Asquith,
immersed in affairs, had avoided revealing himself to Press
men. Mr. Lloyd George, by taking them into his con
fidence, had won their hearts. Speaking of courage, Mrs.
Asquith said that the bravest man she had ever met was
c Mr. McKenna over there/ and she looked across the table.
When refusing to cut down the Naval Estimates some years
before, and thereby immensely strengthening our forces for
the present emergency, he had dared to face not only
popular clamour, but his party and his friends. The sym
pathies of the company being generally Asquithi'an, banter
and legends about his rival were freely exchanged. One
biting summary, attributed to Lord Morley, I still recall:
'As a friend, Brutus; as an orator, Ananias; as a man of
business, ask Marconi. 3 The charm and beauty of my
hostess and Mrs. McKenna dispelled in time these rather
acrid political vapours, and ended delightfully an enter
tainment which for a novice had been almost too exciting.

'Raymond,* by Sir Oliver Lodge, had become the book
of the moment. Many who would not in normal times have
listened to any such testimony, felt that the merest chance
of communicating with those whom they had recently lost

325

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

ought not to be missed. 'Sludge, the Medium 5 was for
gotten: 'The Road to Endor 3 was not yet in existence.
Happening to call on Ricketts one evening at Lansdowne
Road, I found that Edmund Dulac was expected. He and
Yeats were attending a seance by one of Sir Oliver's most
notable mediums, the one, I fancy, who held out hopes of
spirit cigars and spirit whiskies-and-sodas in the world to
come. Ricketts, himself a sceptic, was a little dubious as to
what Dulac's reactions might be. But when that artist came,
he promptly condemned the whole performance as quite
second-rate. Yeats, it is true, had been rather impressed
(they were supposed to be incogniti) by recognition, and by
approbation of his latest book, but Dulac's identity appeared
to cause the spirit some trouble. At last, e I seem to hear a
little voice "Ap-Ap-Ap-Apstein/" was ventured. Dulac
made no move, so the interview continued and ended under
that decisive misapprehension.

So far the War had left us untouched, but its possibilities
were brought home to us in January 191 7 by a shock felt one
evening in Trafalgar Square. It seemed as if a great bomb
had dropped somewhere on the Horse Guards Parade, so
close did the detonation sound, so palpably did the earth
heave : and yet the explosion was at Silvertown, miles away.
Recurrent shortages of coal and foodstuffs were further
omens of trouble, and at times rather serious, as when, in
that chilly spring, my wife and my two boys were all laid
up with measles. No nurse, of course, could be had ; our
faithful Nannie was our one remaining maid, and had not
a girl friend come to the rescue from Appleby we should
have been in sore straits. The invalids were kept happy by
constant reading aloud. After a time they became bored
with all ordinary fiction; then stories of crime and sensa
tion failed to stimulate. Only when, as a final resource, I
procured them a copy of 'Dracula,' did they admit a
stirring of the senses, and decide that it was time to get well.
A proposal now came from, or through, Sir Fabian Ware,
that I should accept the Chairmanship of the Imperial War

326

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

Graves Commission. I felt bound to decline. Even if the
Trustees and the Treasury would both approve, which was
unlikely, such a widespread duplication of activities could not
fail to involve some neglect of my duty to Trafalgar Square.
Events, almost immediately, proved my renunciation to be
right. The air-raids began in earnest, and, as the nearest
resident to the Gallery, I had constantly to be on the spot.
To be called up early in the small hours, to get somehow
from Notting Hill to Trafalgar Square (it's a long, long way
to run), was a nuisance. Yet I disliked the daylight raid
of June 1 3th still more. I had to patrol the Gallery, among
my cheerful old Service men with the fire-hoses, pretending
not to be afraid as the Gothas droned overhead (one hadn't
the fun of watching them), while the imagination persisted
in thinking how the splinters of glass would fly if a bomb
happened to drop among the pictures.

One afternoon, a few days later, I returned from wrestling
with the Stores over our domestic sugar supply, to find that
Sir Lionel Earle had called to tell the Keeper about the
latest type of German bomb. Our cellars were bomb-proof
no longer. I set to work upon velocity statistics from the
Encyclopedia, and calculated that nothing short of burial
forty feet down would be a protection against the new
missiles. As Baker and I discussed the problem, we recalled
glimpses of mysterious sidings seen when travelling by the
Tube. Could some such place be found, and utilized?
My friend Henry Oppenheimer was one of the great men
of the Underground : we rang him up to inquire. He came
to the Gallery at once ; took us to the Headquarters of the
Railway and introduced us to Mr. Burton, the Managing
Director, who, before we left, made us the offer, on most
generous terms, of the unused station in the Strand. We
inspected it that evening. Sir Lionel Earle warmly approved
the idea and, with his busy henchman Frank Baines, set
about transforming the place into a perfect subterranean
fortress. There, by January 1 8th 1918, to my intense relief,
for the air-raiders were busy, some nine hundred of our best

327

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

pictures, with, selected works from great private collections,
the Portrait Gallery, and elsewhere, had found safe harbour.
A section of the unfinished Post Office Tube was subse
quently adapted, in similar fashion, to the needs of the other
great museums,

Yet the lift to our deep asylum would not contain the
largest pictures at Trafalgar Square. Some had simply to
be walled up in situ ; others could be rolled for travelling.
Through the mediation of my uncle, Arthur Dickson, we
secured from Lady Wantage the loan of Overstone Hall,
near Northampton, to which Baker journeyed all through a
dark January day with two immense picture- vans.

Lord D'Abernon kindly offered us the loan of his tennis-
court at Esher Place as an alternative or supplement. While
Baker and I were inspecting it, a telephone call from
Ambrose announced an outrage in the Gallery. A soldier
had damaged several pictures with a trenching-tool. Back
we hurried, to find that evasion of active service was the
apparent motive. Such an .example might have a de
plorable effect should it become public. Down went Baker
to the War Office to settle procedure there, while I tele
phoned to the Police, the Home Office and the Press Censor,
and notified Lord Curzon. To avoid the notoriety of a
civil action, the man would have to be handed over by the
Police to the Military Authorities for court-martial. Early
the next morning the damaged pictures had been replaced
by others, and the Trustees were hastily summoned by a
confidential memorandum. 'Good heavens! 5 exclaimed
one veteran (usually a model of cold, diplomatic prudence),
6 1 didn't realize it was confidential. I'm afraid I've been
talking about it at the Club.'

All, however, went well. The Board did not disapprove;
the culprit was quietly handed over to his regiment, court-
inartialled and packed off abroad ; the club gossip led to
nothing, as did the wonder of those who dreamed that they
had seen an outrage, and Holder made a marvellous job
of mending the damages. Indeed I can only identify the

328

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

focus of trouble upon Claude's Embarkation of St. Ursula by
remembering how, in admiration of Holder's work, I asked
Mm to let me take his brush and touch upon one small
passage, so that I might have a private memento of his
achievement. The lady's face in a picture by Ochtervelt is
a similar tour deforce of mending without repainting.

The repairs to the Claude necessarily involved removal
of the old varnish, which had mellowed with years to a rich
reddish-brown. The painting beneath proved to be as sharp,
cool and vivid in tone as any modern work, so vivid that
it was deemed inadvisable, at first, to show it on our walls.
Even when we ultimately did so, the usual charges of over-
cleaning and 'removal of the glazes' followed. Sir Aston
Webb and several members of the Royal Academy were
among the critics, but when, after failing to find a trace of
the damaged portions, they saw the photograph of the
picture before it was mended, they went quietly away.
Now that the new mastic varnish has had time to mellow,
nobody could guess what the picture's adventures have been.
Except, perhaps, for a slight general increase in clarity and
luminosity, it looks just the same as it did thirty years ago.

Almost all the activities of this war period were accom
panied by some tension or confusion. Even normally
peaceful bodies like the Walpole Society developed internal
pains. I got vexed myself with the Red Cross Committee,
and nearly quarrelled with my friend Baker. Impatient of
all civilian duties while others were fighting, he set his heart
upon going to the Front. In vain did I protest. He qualified
as a motor driver, obtained the consent of the Board, and
went off triumphant, only to return an hour or two later
rejected on medical grounds.

The Tate Gallery, too, turned militant. It had so long
been kept under the heel of the National Gallery that the
appointment in 1917 of a separate Board of Trustees, and
other insignia of partial independence, led naturally to
resilience. The Royal Academy was sharply challenged
over the administration of the Chantrey Fund, and finally

329

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

brought to sanction something like the working compromise
of to-day. Claims to absorb all our c modern 3 foreign
pictures, including Goya and Ingres, drove me to explosion,
and to shelter behind my own Trustees from the masterful
rapacity of my friends at Millbank. I admired, of course,
all the time that I had to oppose. Only, perhaps, by asking
for everything can a Director make sure of getting the
greater part of what he requires, and those who to-day visit
the Tate Gallery will see that the enthusiasm, or policy, of
its second founders, MacColl and Aitken, has been com
pletely justified.

With Cecil Smith and G. F. Hill, I continued to work in
perfect harmony, though our little medallic triumvirate had
occasional vigorous actions with other public or official
committees. Only once did we nearly suffer a serious
reverse, and that was at the War Office. The right was,
mostly, on our side, the diplomacy all on theirs; and
diplomacy would have won the day, had not the result of it
been so plainly unworkable that we agreed to a friendly
compromise. I have had a healthy respect for the War
Office ever since. The Foreign Office, the Colonial Office,
the Air Force, the Mercantile Marine, the Prisoners of War
Helpers, and even the Neutrals, had all their separate medals
or badges to be competed for and judged, apart from the
Memorial Plaque. The competition for this Plaque, being
open to everyone, including men on active service, brought
hundreds of models to Trafalgar Square, of every size, and
executed in every sort of material. The piles of them prac
tically filled a whole cellar. These were gradually sifted to
some two dozen, and from these the final three at last were
chosen. We were repaid for our care, for the Select List of
those who^ had shown promise in this first essay proved of
great service when organizing more limited competitions.
No supreme medallic genius emerged, yet the results, I
think, were generally tolerable, and once, at least, in the
Badge intended for Native Chieftains (it must be a numis
matic rarity), quite charming.

330

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

Occasionally I slipped down to Walton to see Holroyd,
now a complete invalid, and to keep him posted with the
Gallery news. His last request, to hang our big Tintoretto,
Christ washing Peter's Feet, over the stairs in the entrance hall,
was carried out when the place was rearranged after the
War. In November 1917 his gentle, much-enduring spirit
found release from a world altogether too rough and exacting
for it. A month or two later, he was followed to the grave
by one of his chief critics, Mr. Alfred de Rothschild, long
respected by the Board for his wealth, his masterful temper
and his collection of pictures ; from which they optimistic
ally ' imagined that the Gallery would receive some very
considerable benefit. I knew him only by repute, and by
a message of approval which he once sent me from his sick
bed. His death therefore did not affect me as did those of
Holroyd and of Robbie Ross, that delightful, witty gentle
man, become conspicuous, through his loyalty to Oscar
Wilde, as the very pattern of friendship and its unlucky
victim.

At the instigation of Lee- Warner I made, during 1917, one
or two utterly feeble essays in lithography, while continuing
to paint at intervals. In spite of the hard times, some
pictures and drawings got sold. Only one, however, is a
distinct and pleasant memory. Whernside, shown at the
New English Art Club in the winter of that year, found no
purchaser at the time. Yielding to the general indifference,
I put it aside and used it for some time as a drawing-board.
Baker discovered it serving that humble purpose in 1923,
when he was composing his little monograph on my work,
and insisted on its resurrection. It was ultimately bought by
Sir Evan Charteris, and presented by him to the Tate
Gallery.

In April 1918, exhibitions of war paintings and drawings
by Orpen, Rothenstein and Paul Nash indicated a desire
of the authorities for similar propaganda, and I, among
others, was invited to do something to illustrate our efforts
in England. My original mission was abruptly cancelled :

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

the place had just blown up. Instead, I was sent to Sheffield
and, before sketching at Vickers's, Hadfield's and other local
centres, was taken over to Steel, Peech and Tozer's at
Rotherham. There, after a glass of champagne in the office,
I was escorted to see c the view from the old tip.' A storm
of rain blotted out the landscape, and we stumbled for
shelter into a crowded platelayers' cabin on a railway
embankment. The rain passed ; we stepped out ; and, lo !
we were standing on the verge of the mysterious desert I had
so long admired from the Midland Railway. Like a child
admitted to some enchanted garden, I broke from my
soldier-guide, to rush up and down the heaps of ashes,
thrilled with excitement, sketching the forlorn ruins from
every point of view, and accumulating a precious series of
notes on this veritable Yorkshire Campagna. Once, in my
absorption, I sat down on a boulder by the waterside, but
jumped up again quickly; the lump of gray slag was
burning-hot.

The material for my picture could not, unfortunately, be
gathered in these romantic solitudes. The subject had to
include some active industrial life, and I found it finally in
a vast tangle of new girders and chimneys with a sluggish
river below. In the actual painting this tangle was sil
houetted against a clear sky, in Japanese fashion. To the
supervising critic it appeared too Japanese : more realism
was suggested, and introduced, with the result that the whole
looks messy, photographic and feeble. At about the same
time a second and smaller picture, recording a night alarm
at Sandringham, was painted for the War Museum.

My wife's musical energies were naturally interrupted by
the conditions of the time, and their effect upon the needs
of growing children, but in January 1918 she composed and
produced a little musical play on the e AH-Baba' theme, her
first experiment, I think, in this vein. Our two boys with
sundry school-fellows, one or two of whom have since made
the stage their profession, gave us a lively performance ; a
refreshing contrast to the solemnity of 'The Children of

332

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

Don,' the single opera I remember hearing during these
years of anxiety.

Amusements, indeed, were few. Lord Ribblesdale asked
me to Gisburne to see some of his pictures and, finding that
I was a fisherman, insisted on my borrowing his outfit and
going down to the E ibble. Engulfed in his huge brogues and
waders I waddled thither with difficulty, but his Hardy rod
was a dream. Never before or since have I handled such an
exquisite weapon: it seemed to divine by instinct one's
every thought.

A small sensation was caused by the report from our
practical wood-expert, that a well-known fifteenth-century
Madonna and Child was painted on a panel of American bass-
wood or butternut. Since Eerenson had made this picture
one of the keystones in his reconstruction of Florentine art
history, it was quietly withdrawn from exhibition. Berenson
came from Italy in the autumn of 1918 to discuss it, but
science required several years of repeated investigation
before deciding that the wood was 450 years old and not 50.
The Macnab, by Raeburn, next provided excitement. Lord
Curzon hoped that Mrs. Ronald Greville would be able to
buy it for the Nation : a gentleman from the North offered
us 25,000 for it and a baronetcy; Lord Dewar finally
secured it for 24,300. It was no supreme loss. The old
gentleman is not standing quite securely: a mere push
would send him over.

Then came the news that Bellini's Bacchanal was actually
sold and was at Sulley's in Bond Street. Having been
freshly cleaned, it looked brilliant. Every detail showed
clearly, and I was delighted to find, with a magnifying glass,
that the inscription read proudly, JOANNES BELLINUS IN-
VICTUS FECIT (he was nearly ninety when he painted it),
instead of the traditional and commonplace VENETUS. Mr.
Austen Chamberlain, then Chancellor of the Exchequer,
came to see it, but, with the Railway Strike and other signs
of unrest about him, he did not feel justified in advancing
the reduced, but still considerable, sum which Mr. Wert-

333

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

helmer and Mr. Sulley had agreed with me to accept.
'You will admit that the robbers have not been unduly
compensated/ was the latter gentleman's characteristic
comment. So, in spite of the fact that the picture had been
painted as a companion piece to our Bacchus and Ariadne,
we had to let it go to Philadelphia.

At first we found it exceedingly hard even to get a sight
of the pictures which passed through the London market.
The dealers generally were shy of exposing their treasures
to the long-drawn discussions, the rumours, the semi-
publicity and the almost inevitable refusal to which offers
of pictures for purchase had been exposed under the old
system at Trafalgar Square. To restore confidence was far
from easy. c No one ever thinks of offering pictures to you,*
one prominent dealer told me. Others., apparently, thought
us imbeciles. That I should be asked 50,000 by a dealer
for a dull primitive, - which he was thankful, years later, to
sell for some 2000, argued, perhaps, more ignorance on
his part than impudence. But what was one to say when
a genial old friend, who was anything but ignorant, calmly
suggested 10,000 as the price for something in his collec
tion which was really worth about 2000: and he 'com
promised ' eventually on the latter basis !

One cerebral, or physiological, experience perhaps
deserves a record. When Blake's famous illustrations to
Dante were needed for the Tate Gallery, Baker and I went
through them at Christie's, one morning before lunch,
selecting those which we admired most, and getting keenly
excited. The next day we proposed to review our opinion
and selection, since the sum involved was considerable.
Before doing so, we deliberately treated ourselves to as good
a lunch as the straits of the time permitted, with the idea
that the drawings would be "enhanced by splendours re
flected from our food and drink. We were completely dis
illusioned. The artificial stimulus had so heightened our
perceptions that we viewed everything with coldly critical
eyes. Hardly a third of the number we had previously

334

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

admired (they still retained a relative excellence) could
stand the post-prandial test. c Never trust your eye when
you are feeling hungry/ would seem the obvious moral. Is
that, I wonder, why successful dealing is commonly allied
with good living?

A spark of mild adventure enlivened this drab official
routine. Early in March 1918, while I was bargaining with
Roger Fry for a little painting, now attributed to Butinone,
he brought me a catalogue of the pictures collected by Degas
which were shortly to be sold in Paris. The collection
included several notable works by Ingres, Delacroix and
other French masters, unrepresented at Trafalgar Square
yet badly needed to illustrate the development of modern
art. Though I wholly agreed with Fry as to their extreme
desirability, I could see no chance at that critical time of
getting any money for such a venture. But one of Fry's
friends, Maynard Keynes, then a great power at the
Treasury, was also roused by the opportunity, and said that
if an official request were made for a Special Grant to
acquire some of the pictures, he would back it. We were
incurring, without question, enormous liabilities for our
Continental allies: a few good French pictures would be
worth more to us in the end than most of that dubious
paper. Lord Curzon at once recognized the value of the
suggestion, made the requisite application in Whitehall, and
obtained a grant of 20,000.

The next two days were spent in settling preliminaries of
the journey with Geoffrey Fry at the Treasury, picking up
wrinkles from my friend Mayer as to the methods of French
auction-rooms, getting an introduction from my friend Car-
stairs to Messrs. Knoedler's Paris branch, and polishing up
my memory of Ingres and Delacroix. On the morning of
March 24th I went with my wife to Charing Cross to meet
the members of the International Financial Mission, under
whose wing I was to travel. Mr. Austen Chamberlain was
its chief, supported by Lord Buckmaster, Sir Alfred Booth,
and other cheerful beings : the stalwart Paul Cravath repre-

335

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

scnted America, a charming General Mola represented
Italy, while Keynes, apparently, covered all Europe, though
each of the allies had, I fancy, some special nominee. To
this most friendly company Geoffrey Fry played the quiet
efficient courier, its material needs being supplied no less
efficiently by Berry, the Treasury factotum.

A crossing in fine weather, with escorting destroyers and a
silver airship watching overhead, gave us a refreshing start.
At Boulogne realities began; and we stuffed ourselves at
the buffet, knowing that we should get little else to eat for
nearly twenty-four hours. As the train dawdled through
the sunlit afternoon, it was hard, at first, to realize from an
occasional wrecked house or scarred hillside, that we were
on the edge of actual war. Gradually the sound of the guns
rising and falling on our left increased, but not until we were
all in our berths, at two the next morning, did our leisurely
progress stop, at Amiens which the Germans were bombing.
Only one bomb fell fairly close and made the carriage
heave. Though the raid lasted for two hours, I was agree
ably surprised to listen without an atom of fear. In London,
with wife and children, or under the roof of the Gallery,
impotence and anxiety combined to attack the nerves. But
here I -was, at last, on a very feeble kind of active service :
if the end should happen to come, it would no longer be
that of a complete embusque.

As we sauntered along once more next morning, the talk
turned on the shells falling into Paris. Was a gun of the
immense range which such shells required an engineering
possibility? Finally CreU platform, crowded with refugees,
and eagerly scanned newspapers containing no information,
brought us back to realities ; confirmed by the first excited
words which greeted us at 11.30 as we stepped on to the
Paris platform, c Le canon n'a pas tire depuis neuf heures. 3

Leaving my bag at the Crillon, and presenting my
credentials to MM. Hamann and Davey at Knoedler's, I
proceeded with Mr. Chamberlain and Keynes to Georges
Petit's hot, crowded auction-room, to inspect, compare,

336

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

value and mark my catalogue in preparation for the sale
next day. Mr. Chamberlain was generally sympathetic,
except in the case of a Greco which I wanted. To this he
displayed a disconcerting dislike, saying in his impulsive,
humorous way that if I bought it he would hesitate about
signing the cheque. After dinner he asked some of us up
to his room for a smoke, and there we met General Sykes,
who gave us an interesting account of what he would do if
he commanded the Air Force; as he was soon to do. The
morning of the 2 6th was employed in getting coached by
MM. Hamann and Davey, with whom, after lunch, I went
to the sale-room and secured an unoccupied corner.

The auctioneer puzzled me at first by disregarding entirely
the catalogue order, beginning somewhere in the middle of
the numbers, and dodging backwards and forwards at will.
This it appeared was the French sale-room plan for giving
minor lots the chance of being seen by the whole assembly,
and keeping buyers alert. Gradually I got accustomed to
his ways and voice, and to translating quickly quotations in
francs to their approximate sterling equivalents. I even
ventured to beguile the weary waiting by cautious bids for
things I did not really want; such was the potency of
impatience. Matters had droned on thus for a full hour,
when, at three o'clock, a dull c Boom 3 sounded outside, as
if a smallish bomb had dropped. c C'est le canon ' was heard
on all sides, and people began to leave the room. Still the
paintings did not appear. At 3.15 a second 'Boom ' showed
that what we afterwards knew as Big Bertha had again got
going. There was quite a considerable rush to the door, at
least one prominent Paris dealer being among the fugitives.

Then, at last, the important pictures came up before a
much depleted assembly. By great good luck, one of the
very finest, the Ingres portrait of M. de Norvins, did not
appeal to the room so much as the painter's later and more
oily products, so we secured it for about a third of the price
we expected to pay. But the big Delacroix, Baron Schwiter,
was not to be had so easily. As I went on bidding there

337

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

came a stir, people stood up to look at me, and voices,
'C'est pour le Louvre, Monsieur/ e Vous luttez contre le
Louvre, Monsieur.' It was most unpleasant. Yet if I gave
way for a moment to the clamour, the picture would be lost
for good and all. Better face a little trouble now, than a
permanent regret for funking. So we secured it. Over the
other pleasant Delacroix, the Louvre was too strong for me.
But we got the pieces of the big Execution of Maximilian by
Manet, 1 as well as the luminous study, Mme Manet, with
the cat on her lap, two small compositions by Ingres, the
vivid little early landscape by Corot, which Degas kept
hanging over his bed, and several other useful things.

Returning in a cheerful mood to the Crillon, I was met
by Geoffrey Fry, looking very white; c The Germans had
broken through: the English, overwhelmed, were in re
treat; though the French were fighting like tigers at Noyon,
Paris was threatened ; anything might happen, the Govern
ment may have to retire to Bordeaux.' At dinner we were
comforted a little by news from the War Council at Versailles
of the unified Command ; e Clemenceau is Generalissimo :
Foch, Commander-in-Chief.' Hearing of our sale-room
doings, a polite liaison officer volunteered to show us a fine
private collection in the Avenue du Bois.

It was after ten when we got there, and the owner was
out, but a manservant ushered us into a little room plastered
with paintings, and brought us whisky and soda. While
we wandered about discussing the pictures, an unsuspected
door opened and in walked the owner, a huge, suave central
European with a cigar to match. Perhaps because I was
from the National Gallery, and had been seen buying
pictures, he gave me his first attention. But his wares were
inferior to what we had just acquired ; he quickly found me
unprofitable material, and turned to my companion, whose
tastes were more modern. The modern pictures were down-

1 M. Vollard in his recently published Recollections tells how this picture
was originally cut up, and how the chief fragments were bought by Degas
and pasted in position on a large canvas.

338

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

stairs; so down we went to a great room hung with the
latest products of Matisse and the like. Our host certainly
had a way with him. By adroit compliments, 'You and I 3
of course, know better/ he set about fanning my clever
friend's enthusiasm to the purchasing point, by inducing
a mood of confidence, of complacency, in which an under
taking to buy became an essential sequel to the intellectual
and artistic agreement established between two such superior
beings. It was the most brilliant piece of diplomacy I ever
witnessed ; such a salesman deserved such a palace. Indeed
my friend confessed afterwards that he was only saved from
rashness by recalling that he had spent all his spare money
that very day on a charming work by Cezanne. As we
walked away at last into the quiet moonlight I wondered,
while hearing of the disastrous bickerings of the High Com
mand, that no German planes came overhead. It was the
night, I believe, that they made thirty-seven raids upon
Abbeville.

At Knoedler's the next morning, it appeared that no
packing-cases for my purchases could be had for love or
money. The great packing-case, magnate of Paris finally
came, top-hatted and frock-coated, with two assistants in
blue blouses, to explain with much bowing and hand-waving
that the thing was impossible. Could a French man of
business refuse money? I offered 250 francs for a case to
take the big Manet and Delacroix, with delivery at the
Gare du Nord at 10 P.M. The bait was taken. The other
pictures would all have to come out of their frames and be
packed in bundles. Lunch at the Embassy followed, Lord
Bertie grimly regretting, as he gave me the blank cheque
for my picture bill, that I couldn't include with it 1200
for his fine inlaid escritoire, which he feared the Germans
might appreciate, or destroy. From the Embassy we went
again to the sale-rooms, but our luck had changed.

We were outbidden for all the good paintings, including
the aforesaid Greco, a Perronneau and the best examples of
Gauguin. I was too far from the easel to see distinctly the

339

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

drawings set upon it. In consequence I got, by mistake,
several that I did not care for, in addition to some that
were useful. The prices however were not so high as to
make one or two slips a serious matter. Over the Greco I
made a quick mental compromise between Mr. Chamber
lain's dislike, the needs of Trafalgar Square, and Knoedler's
wish to get the picture if I failed to do so. It was a small
version of the San Ildefonso at Illescas. I determined to bid
only up to about 3000, and having done so in vain, told
M. Hamann he could continue. He got the picture at the
very next bid, and we could not grudge him the success ; he
had been so magnificently helpful and unselfish in enabling
us to get almost all we wanted at the cost of about half
our .grant. Big Bertha, by the way, broke down again after
those two timely discharges, and fired no more till we had
left Paris.

When everything was cleared we carried back our spoils
to Knoedler's, and there we all went down on the floor,
Hamann, Davey, Keynes, the typist and myself, wrestling
with waterproof paper and string and tacks and pincers, till
the pictures and drawings were made up into portable
packages. Hamann and Davey were entertained and
thanked at the Gallon 5 * then we packed ourselves off to the
train. There was a general exodus from Paris. Means of
transit were uncertain even for the wealthy. The Inter
national Mission was fortunate in having a carriage in the
northbound train, although, if the German advance con
tinued, our journey might not end in Boulogne. At the Gare
du Nord the huge case was waiting for us, but the stubborn
luggage clerk would not pass it, even though a kindly liaison
officer explained its International importance. The clerk
insisted on having the monster solemnly weighed, and gave
me a ticket which I still possess. The case was passed, as
the personal luggage of the seventeen members of the
International Mission, and the charge for excess weight was
10 centimes.

Next morning, just as I was rescuing my only tie from the

340

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

wash-basin, the imperturbable Berry appeared with my
breakfast a roll, a stick of chocolate and half a tumbler of
Sauterne, on a piece of greasy brown paper. I put the lot
on my bunk. 'Please/ said Berry, 'may I have the paper
back, it's Mr. Chamberlain's tablecloth.' The Germans were
within nine miles of Amiens. Yet the sound of the guns was
actually less than when we had passed through before, and
nothing interrupted our leisurely progress, though the
opposite track carried one endless procession of trucks with
men, stores and cannon filing past us to the Front. Mr.
Chamberlain inspected a few of the more accessible pur
chases ; Lord Buckmaster talked pleasantly of trout-fishing ;
Keynes and Cravath of interest payments. I could not help
asking whether America would not soon possess all the gold
in the world, while Europe would only have paper? How
then could the interchange of goods continue unless in some
way the gold and the paper were made equivalent? That,
it seemed, was a matter for Commerce, not for High Finance.

At Boulogne, in drizzling rain, Booth and others helped
me valiantly with my bundles and, commandeering a hand
cart, wheeled my great case over the cobbles to our boat.
How to get the thing aboard I knew not. Spying, however,
a personage on the deck, resplendent in gold lace, I called
out 'Mission Internationale' and waved a fifty-franc note.
The spell worked like magic. The monster was duly hoisted
aboard, and stacked in comparative shelter, while the
bundles were piled in a cabin where one or two foreign
members of the Mission already lay supine, prepared for
the worst.

Our convoy included two camouflaged hospital ships, and
their disembarkation kept us tossing for an hour or more
outside Folkestone. Though it was a roughish crossing, I
never felt one touch of sea-sickness, being much too anxious
lest a German mine or torpedo should catch us at the very
last minute, and send all my precious purchases to the
bottom. The railway van at Folkestone proved too small
for the famous case; it had to follow by the next train, while

34 1

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

I, sharing in a weird meal of coffee and tinned tongue, took
on my bundles to a darkened London. Having deposited
them, and rested a little at the Club, I routed out an un
willing Deputy Station-master with the magical authority
of c International Mission/ and secured a sufficient handcart,
four porters and two lanterns, to await the coming of my
case. It came : we all moved off in solemn procession to
Trafalgar Square, and there at 1 1.20 P.M. I was able to leave
it in comparative safety. When the Audit office demanded
vouchers for the 4, igs. which the transport had cost me,
aU I could produce was that lo-centime ticket. On Good
Friday, when the revived Big Bertha killed some two hundred
people in Paris, I got away to Appleby.

Lord Curzon sent me e 1000 congratulations 3 ; the Board
accepted even the Gauguin I had bought; we all thanked
Knoedler's for their invaluable help; and then our good
fortune tempted the making of a similar effort at the sale of
works by Degas himself. Eric Maclagan, being now in
Paris, could represent both the National Art-Collections
Fund and the Modern Foreign Gallery; Lord Curzon
secured a grant of 3000, and with Aitken, MacColl, Keynes
and myself spent the best part of a week in preparing a plan
of campaign. But this time the luck went against us. Prices
were rather high ; the pictures we most fancied were fancied
also by the Louvre, and the brief telegraphed instructions
did not provide for any swift change of policy amid the
confusion and accidents of a Paris sale-room. A portrait for
the National Art -Collections Fund was the only booty
secured.

This matter had a troublesome sequel. In October, Lord
Curzon called my attention to a paragraph in a weekly
paper, imputing the negative result to his interference and
lack of taste. I wrote at once to c Sardonyx, ' the author of
the paragraph (who proved to be Arnold Bennett) en
deavouring, by a statement of the facts, to show him that
the charge was unjustified, and ought to be withdrawn.
Withdrawal I failed to obtain; indeed the first paragraph

342

1916-1918] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

was followed by another which, in the guise of a half-apology,
managed to be still more offensive. I was much vexed, not
only by the unfairness of the attack, but by the distress that
a thing, so paltry in itself, had evidently caused Lord Curzon,
much harassed as he was at the moment by war problems.
With this personal sympathy was allied some official anxiety,
lest he should be so discouraged by the outcome of a genuine
wish to help us that he would think twice before repeating it.
The attack was clearly mere political mud-spattering, and,
having been kept informed of my correspondence, Lord
Curzon himself came, in the end, to the same conclusion.
"You have been very kind, 5 said he, so I judged that no
permanent harm was done.

Armistice Day coincided with my fiftieth birthday. I had
been honoured some months earlier by election, at Lord
Dillon's instance, as F.S.A. ; my pictures and drawings still
had a tiny circle of admirers, and in little more than two
years quite amicable relations had been established with the
majority of the Board at Trafalgar Square. Nor, apart from
my own fear of too much good fgrtune, did I lack warning
as to the other side of the picture. As Ricketts remarked one
evening at Lansdowne Road, 'Everyone is dying to see you
make a little mistake. 3

This, no doubt, was partly my own fault. I might have
paid my contemporaries the compliment of consulting them
more often. But natural impatience and love of going my
own way were not all to blame. Collins Baker and I had
no assistant to whom we could delegate critical business.
The Cabinet secretarial system brought about a multiplica
tion of official documents and memoranda, to be read,
circulated and answered. The Gallery business in itself, at
this troubled period, kept us so constantly on the run, that
we had to deal in summary fashion with questions which, if
once submitted to others, would have involved discussions,
differences, delays. These last we simply could not afford
if the day's work was to be done. Were it ever left undone,
we knew we should be brought to book quickly enough. So

343

SELF AND PARTNERS [1916-1918

the habit of relying upon ourselves, and paying but per
functory attention to outsiders of infinite leisure, became
ingrained. Moreover, when the Board in January 1919
elected Lord Lansdowne to be their permanent Chairman,
we were provided with an authority to whom all important
questions had to be referred. The new arrangement rele
gated the Director to a definitely subordinate place. This
was no fatal disadvantage, but the resultant duality of
control might easily have involved administrative diffi
culties, had not Lord Lansdowne's strict sense of constitu
tional propriety kept the balance even, for the time being.

344

CHAPTER XVIII
PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

(1919-1925)

Thoughts on public affairs ; the Westminster Play ; the Irish
Settlement ; the Chequers Trust ; honours ; at Norwich and
Cambridge ; Leonardo da Vinci ; book on the National
Gallery ; France and Spain ; expert evidence in Paris and
Holland ; the N.E.A.C. ; the Grosvenor Gallery and the
R.W.S. ; my wife's music ; social experiences ; fishing on the
Eden and the Windrush.

THE background to our activities now lacked neither colour
nor variety. Foch and Clemenceau, Haig and Plumer,
President and Mrs. Wilson passed in triumph by our
Gallery windows ; Lawrence of Arabia impressed me by his
fierce self-restraint ; Royal and other personages began once
more to visit Trafalgar Square. None of them really seemed
so interesting as President Wilson. He might look like a
complacent, doctrinaire schoolmaster, yet he stood for
things immeasurably greater than himself. It was the
unique moment when the co-operation of America with
England might make the world fit for cowards like myself
to live in. Believing her to be actuated by our own wish to
help humanity, we were bitterly disappointed, and perhaps
unreasonably, when she repudiated her President and the
undertakings he had given on his country's behalf.

At the moment, we were inclined to blame 'The Eco
nomic Consequences of the Peace' for the mischief. I
remember how its untimely display of the President as the
plaything of more lively wits moved even the gentle Lord
Plymouth to indignation. But a decision endorsed by a
huge, remote populace, whose local, party and personal
prejudices were on a par with their inexperience of inter
national affairs, could not have been materially affected by

345

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

a few paragraphs in a semi-technical book. Anyhow, the
effect of such a gran rifiuto upon the moral influence of the
United States was immediate, and all the more profound
from its contrast to the high ideals and solemn authority
by which the President's pledges had apparently been
backed. So, in a single moment, America lost the con
fidence of Europe and the leadership of the world. Her
subsequent refusal to cancel out international debts caused
comparatively little surprise. It was only another bad
commercial miscalculation, as much regretted by the best
and wisest elements in the United States as it was in
England.

Meanwhile the claims and performances of sundry states
men and politicians "diverted the public. As usual, the
Epilogue to the Westminster Play aptly summed up the
feeling of the time. Several frock-coated gentlemen ap
peared, disputing volubly as to which of them had really
won the War. A helmeted private soldier, who had watched
the talkers in silence, was suddenly asked, 'Quid tu fecisti? *
His reply, c Nil ego. Miles eram, 5 fairly brought down the
house. Indeed, as the next Epilogue put it, some of the
folly of that period was e ipsissima margo.' For these
fescennine pleasantries I was indebted to my elder son
Martin, then a Westminster Scholar, and a not unsuccessful
writer of the Epigrams with which, by tradition, the West
minster curriculum is agreeably diversified. In the precincts
of the Abbey, such customs, which would have delighted
More and Erasmus, seem appropriate still.

What with food troubles, money troubles, general unrest
in the world of Labour, strikes on the Tube, the Railways,
and in the Coal industry, we were always kept anxious, and
sometimes made uncomfortable. Ruinous as these disputes
might be, they never roused quite the same bitterness as
the guerilla warfare in Ireland, and the spasmodic irresolu
tion with which it was handled. * Tyrone is as safe as walk
ing down Piccadilly,* said one responsible optimist to me:
the same who encouraged our forces there with, 'Take my

346

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

word for it ; the British Government will back you through
thick and thin/ just two days before the Truce was made
which left those forces impotent.

c Tales of the R.I.C./ first published in 'Blackwood's
Magazine/ drew so grim a picture of the situation that I felt
it must be an exaggeration of the facts. Happening to meet
at dinner an officer who had been through the thick of the
trouble, I ventured to ask his opinion of the book. c Dam
badly written, but every word of it is true/ was the reply;
the more significant because the book was not badly written,
far from it. Assassins and spies at our very doors, with such
savageries as the Dublin murders, left a deeper impression
than even the German brutalities. A few days before the
Truce, and the talks which led to the Irish Treaty, these
preoccupations brought on a dream so curious that I can't
help telling it.

I found myself at a meeting of the Chequers Trustees.
The place and persons present remain vague, but the object
of our summons was to protect Mr. Lloyd George from
being assassinated. To guide the Police in arranging their
patrols, the large-scale plan of the Chequers estate, mounted
'on rollers four or five feet long, had been deposited at
Scotland Yard. But the precautions taken were insuffi
cient; suspicious strangers had appeared in the Chequers
grounds. The Prime Minister had faced the intruders boldly
enough, and they had retired without doing him damage,
but the Trustees would clearly have to consider more
effective means of defence. The Police were asked to
explain their failure ; the great Plan was sent for, and lo !
it had been stolen from Scotland Yard. Even that citadel
of our civic security was held by the forces of Sinn Fein !
What the shadowy meeting decided, if it decided anything,
I don't in the least remember : but the proclamation of the
Truce a few days later seemed to follow quite naturally.

The dream must have been inspired by one of Mr.
Chesterton's pleasant inventions, where the arch-criminal
finally reveals himself as the supreme detective, but the

347

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

matter of it was unusually vivid and reasonable. As a rule
my dreams are vague, mostly connected with fishing and,
if I may judge from the black shapes of corruption that I
catch, the result of vulgar indigestion. Only once or twice
have I found myself wading in the shallows of unknown
lakes, and taking a few genuine dream-trout weighing about
three to the pound. My monster fish are, alas ! confined to
the two which I hooked in the Windrush and failed to get
out of it. As to the Police : I once sat next to the Chief
Commissioner at a Royal Academy Banquet. His presence,
for some reason, made the wine waiter so nervous that I
heard him murmur in the great man's ear, as he handed the
champagne, 'Rumm or Moederer, sir? 5

When the present Lord and Lady Lee were making their
wonderful gift of Chequers to the Prime Minister, the
Director of the National Gallery was appointed an ex-qfficio
Trustee, to look after the collection of pictures in the house.
Baker and I paid more than one visit to the delightful old
place, providing the materials for a catalogue which Lord
Lee subsequently revised and printed. We marvelled, then,
that the owners could bear to part, in their lifetimes, with
such a perfect haven of peace. Even the bequest of it would
have been a princely gesture.

The discussion of preliminaries, including the Bill which
defines the terms of the Trust, took me to Downing Street,
where I saw for the first time Mr. Lloyd George surrounded
by the chief members of the Cabinet. From my lowly place
at the end of the big table, I noticed the profound deference
which all, even Lord Curzon, showed to him as he sat there
smiling, at ease and alert ; a master whose merest nod was
the crack of a whip. Suddenly a head peeped in through
the French window that opened upon the little garden. It
was Mr. Bonar Law. He was gaily invited to enter, and
took a seat, still smoking his curly pipe, by the side of the
Prime Minister; the one man in all the company who
seemed completely at ease in that vigilant presence. He
was ready enough, too. When I got into trouble over

348

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

interpreting a clause in the Bill which had caused some
difficulty, Mr. Bonar Law came to my help and, summing
up my argument in one homely phrase, carried the business
through.

It was amusing to see Mr. Lloyd George, on the strength
of his own professional experience, challenge and confute
the Lord Chief Justice (Sir Rufus Isaacs, now Lord Reading)
over a point of law. Not so amusing, however, was the next
meeting, when the Prime Minister suddenly asked me a
question about the rating of the National Gallery. I
answered it flippantly and I answered it wrong. But before
the foolishness was out of my mouth, his instinct marked
me for a silly fellow, and, he turned away to speak to some
one at the other end of the table. It was clear enough why
all the others stood in awe of that uncanny thought-reading.

At the close of the meeting I recovered a little of my
credit, but at a cost. My attention was called to a portrait
over the mantelpiece which an influential member of the
Cabinet, hitherto most friendly to me, had offered to present,
so that Walpole might be represented at Downing Street.
Walpole, Mr. Lloyd George added, was, in his opinion, the
greatest of British Prime Ministers, and ought to have this
place of honour in the Cabinet Room. Was the picture
the right thing? Alas ! Alas ! The painting was good
enough, but the sitter was not Walpole. He was, appa
rently, the first Lord Lyttelton. I was, of course, compelled
to say so, at the risk of displeasing the donor, who was
present and warmly disputed my judgment. 'Are you
certain?' asked Mr. Lloyd George. 'Yes.' 'Well, that
settles it. We don't want Lord Lyttelton here, 3 and the
matter ended, so far as Walpole was concerned.

Mr. Ramsay MacDonald's quiet ways surprised me. From
his pre-war reputation I had expected a firebrand. At the
single meeting during his first Premiership, I was as pleased
to see him turn down a proposal from a too clever friend
that he should profit, in some small matter, at his prede
cessor's expense, as to watch Mr. Snowden putting up a

349

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

vigorous fight for the Exchequer over some question of
rating, or the like. Such sharp common sense was refreshing
at a time when many members of the Labour Government
inspired anything but confidence.

To me Mr. Ramsay MacDonald was always most friendly
and considerate, genuinely interested in art, and gifted with
that supreme grace, a sly sense of fun. At a cheerful little
private dinner I once ventured, rather impudently, to have
a dig at him. He took not the least offence, laughed with
the rest, and bided his time till the conversation turned
upon our Foreign Policy. This fascinated him, and he
remarked that, if ever he were again returned to office,
he would like to hold the Foreign Secretaryship together
with the Premiership. To combine them would present no
insuperable difficulty in these days ; the Foreign Office was
so perfectly organized, c one might almost be at the National
Gallery! 3

I visited Chequers again in Mr. Baldwin's time, but my
chief memory is not of the pleasant luncheon, but of a talk
on the terrace with Eric Maclagan. He had recently been
staying with some of the Buxton family, who possessed a
lake containing trout. For these they were accustomed to
fish, but only with barbless hooks. The moment a fish had
been brought to the net, the fly -was gently removed, and
the captive, as gently, returned to the water. The trout
had now become quite accustomed to this humanitarian
sport, and seemed to enjoy as much as their captors the
game of being fished for, played and landed.

As already mentioned, I had recently been elected a
Fellow of the Society of Antiquaries, an unworthy one I
fear, for my work lay in a different field. Now, in spite of
even greater unsuitability, of which I made no secret, I
was invited by Archdeacon Spooner to join the Committee
of the Clergy Orphan Corporation. This at least enabled
me to see what immense improvements had been made
since my own schooldays; how carefully and how gener
ously each new requirement was considered and provided.

350

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

St. Margaret's at Bushey, under Miss Boys, had been famous
for some time. St. Edmund's at Canterbury appeared
equally happy, and hardly less comfortable, under Canon
Burnside, his engaging family, and a group of exceptionally
keen masters. The Committee clearly knew its business
thoroughly. It needed no help from outside, so I took the
first opportunity of returning to work for which I was less
ill-adapted.

In the summer of 1931 I received the honour of knight
hood, my kind sponsors being Sir Philip Sassoon and Lord
Curzon. The latter, fresh from his Marquisate, wrote that
his satisfaction was c more than trebled when the paper told
me I had been successful in pulling you in too. I had
spoken personally to the P.M. about it. But he is a fugitive
sort of bird, and I could not be certain till the end/ The
honour was greatly enhanced for my wife and myself by
the personal kindness of the King and the Queen in receiving
us semi-privately at Buckingham Palace.

In the autumn I was given the opportunity of putting
forward two other names for honours. One of them had
already been the subject of a ponderous memorial, singularly
ill-adapted to its purpose, as it seemed to me when I signed
it and as the event proved. But the merits of the case were
so evident that a simple statement of them was now quite
enough to secure the desired result. The other statement,
equally simple, did not fare so well. It led indeed to an
interview, and to the offer of a baronetcy, but on terms
which my startled acquaintance, who had done good public
service for years and years, promptly and rather indignantly
declined. Shortly afterwards these concomitants of 'recog
nition 5 attracted public notice and, by general consent,
were rendered impossible.

Two months earlier, great preparations had been made
at Norwich to celebrate the centenary of John Crome by an
Exhibition of his works. Everything was done that local
patriotism could do to make the occasion worthy of their
famous citizen. The National Gallery consented, for once,

35 J

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

to lend some notable specimens of his work ; the opening
ceremony was to be performed by the Prince of Wales.
I was due to say a few words afterwards about Crome as
an artist. Just a day or two before the event, I was asked
to lunch by Sir Philip Sassoon and introduced to the Prince.
It was a time of considerable unrest in the Labour world ;
the Prince would have to stay in London to be at the centre
of things, and I must take his place at the opening ceremony.
There was no questioning that decision, but alas! Poor
Norwich ! All their decorations and preparations would be
wasted. However, my wife and I duly travelled down;
were received and entertained by our friends the Gurneys ;
I walked, a sorry, shabby substitute, in the Lord Mayor's
state procession, and made the necessary speech. This part
of the business, at least, I could do con amore, having always
had a great admiration for Crome, and liking for his ancient
city and the scenery round it.

For sheer pomp and circumstance, nothing, I think,
equalled the conferring of an Honorary Doctorate at Cam
bridge in the summer of 1924. This honour pleased me for
the pleasure it gave to my kind uncle Granville Dickson, an
old Trinity man, who had greatly admired my father, and
now, in spite of his advanced age 3 came specially to Cam
bridge for the occasion. After seeing the new galleries at
the Fitzwilliam Museum, which Dunbar Smith had designed,
most ingeniously, for Cockerell, and after a luncheon at
King's, our red-robed procession, headed by the Chancellor,
Lord Balfour, and including the other Doctors-designate,
the Duke of Rutland, Lord Crawford and D. G. Hogarth,
marched over the greensward in the sunshine, past my
father's old college of Clare, towards a gate in a big iron
railing. Beyond it a great crowd waited for us. But the
gate was locked, and nobody could find the key. So right
about turn our august procession had to go, and reach the
Senate House by some inglorious by-way.

To flaunt about the place in robes for the rest of the day
was an experience gratifying to vanity. Never had Cam-

352

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

bridge looked so attractive; even its stucco lodging-houses
seemed to lose their drabness in that cheerful sunshine. But
all the while there loomed a shadow in the background. I
was due to make a speech that evening at a grand dinner in
Trinity. Nor was my anxiety lessened when I found myself
placed immediately on Lord Balfour's right. Yet the un
common charm of his table-talk gradually brought me some
relief, and his charitable 'Well done! 5 when I sat down
carried me through the rest of the evening. The finale, too,
seemed appropriate, for I spent the night with Dr. Shipley
at Christ's, the very college at which, thirty-seven years
earlier, I had so signally failed to get an Exhibition.

Literary labours had restarted in the spring of 1919 with
the composing of an address to the British Academy, to
celebrate the Quatercentenary of Leonardo da Vinci.
Though quite short, the lecture cost me four months 3 hard
work. The infinite curiosity of Leonardo's intellect com
pelled research into subjects like anatomy, of which I knew
nothing, and into other sciences, of which I knew very little.
His geological discoveries, in particular, fascinated me by
their startling anticipation of the modern standpoint, and
explained much of the mystery surrounding this side of
Leonardo's life. Had he dared to publish his knowledge of
the immensity of geological time, he must have been de
nounced and punished as an arch-heretic, tampering with
the very foundations of faith. When my little hour of
lecturing at Burlington House was over, I had, at Dr.
Seward's request, to discuss before the Geological Society
this part of Leonardo's discoveries, including his account of
fossilization, a piece of true scientific deduction which even
a Darwin or a Huxley could hardly have bettered.

Notes on some early Constable drawings, privately printed
under the title of e Constable, Gainsborough and Lucas,'
covered more familiar ground. A little later my own efforts
at painting were discussed and illustrated by X. B. (C. H.
Collins Baker), in one of a series of monographs on c Con
temporary British Artists ' which Albert Rutherston edited.

353

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

A shorter monograph, with some colour-reproductions, had
been issued by the ' Studio ' in 1 920. My c Illustrated Guide
to the National Gallery ' (1920-1921), and my share in 'The
Making of the National Gallery' (1924), though based on
official materials, and published by the Trustees, had of
necessity to be written in non-official hours, and the success
of the former prompted Mr. Bickers of George Bell and Sons
to engage me in a much more elaborate work.

This was to be a study of the National Gallery pictures, of
a kind which would help the average educated person to
understand the reasons for which each of them was to be
admired, without involving him in the minutiae of critical
controversy. With this general idea I was in complete
sympathy. Specialization in criticism was fast sterilizing all
interest in art, just as specialization in warfare was thought
to be sterilizing leadership. A survey more general and less
inhuman than current scholarship provided, was what the
time seemed to require. Moreover, the national collection
as a whole is so complete, that only occasional additions from
outside (such as the chapter on Japan in the third volume)
were needed to enlarge the book from a commentary upon
particular works at Trafalgar Square into a History of
Painting. The task occupied, burdened and enthralled me
for some five years.

The first volume, on the Italian Schools, caused little
difficulty, being principally concerned with problems of
Form, Design and Colour, over which I had often pondered
in the course of my own attempts at painting. The second
volume led to trouble. When dealing with the Dutch School,
I had to face the problems presented by Light and by
Realism. It was interesting, nay exciting, to trace the
solutions which the great Dutchmen found ; but the interest,
the excitement, transferred themselves unconsciously to my
own practice, with unfortunate results. By endeavouring to
graft these new realistic ideas upon the formal type of design
which I had hitherto favoured, I got almost as thoroughly
muddled between the claims of Art and of Nature, as I had

354

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

been thirty years earlier when starting to paint in my Cowley
Street lodgings. Indeed, I attribute the decline in breadth
and simplicity which my painting soon began to show,
chiefly to theories expounded in that fatal second volume.
In themselves these theories were sound enough, appropriate
to Dutch painting., and in some respects original ; but they
did not suit my own limited range of subject-matter and
still more limited powers of execution. Two journeys on
the Continent helped to distract attention still further from
the hills and industries of the North which had hitherto
inspired me.

My lively aunt. Miss Holmes, had wintered for many years
either in Italy or upon the Riviera. She was now too old
and frail to pay another visit to England, so, in 1921, I went
out to see her at Mentone. This tour enabled me to visit
the principal museums in the south and east of France, and
left some still sharper impressions : rainstorms and clouds
over the Alpes Maritirnes, a rare pint of Chateauneuf du
Pape at Lyons (where the inhabitants delight in misdirecting
strangers), the cliff-like walls of the Papal Palace, Enguer-
rand Charenton at Villeneuve, the squalor of Aries, the
Maison Carree glowing like a jewel in sunlit Nimes, and,
most of all perhaps, the amazing supply of picturesque
material in the neighbourhood of Marseilles. Spain, three
years later, proved even more disturbing, with the almost
incredible pinnacles and gorges near Miranda, the snow-clad
Guadarramas (in places oddly reminiscent of the Pennines),
and the grim scenery round the EscoriaL These impressions
I tried to utilize ; but only two or three times, in a sketch of
the Guadarramas belonging to Mr. Curnow Vosper, in
another of the Alpes Maritimes, and in a painting of the
Escorial, did I come near to satisfying myself. The failures
were many and bad.

Twice I went abroad as a sort of expert. The first journey
was to Paris, for a couple of days. An action had been
brought against the present Lord Duveen for venturing to
say that an American lady's version of La Belle Ferronniere in

355

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

the Louvre was not an original by Leonardo da Vinci.
Roger Fry, Martin Conway, Schmidt-Degener, Dr. Laurie,
besides myself, having been asked to testify to that simple
proposition, were solemnly accorded a private view of the
rival ladies, set side by side; magnifying glasses, big and
little, were brought to bear upon them ; consultations with
the lawyers followed. When I was cross-examined for some
three hours by Mr. Ririgrose, the clever American counsel
for the plaintiff, a picturesque Paris journalist described me
as c pale. mordillant sa moustache. 3 There was reason for
being a little nervous. I had left my spectacles behind in
London, and should have been floored if Mr. Ringrose had
handed me any document to read.

The second journey was to Holland, to provide evidence
for the Dutch High Court in the matter of a disputed Frans
Hals. It was a very clever little painting, at first sight
above suspicion. But examination with a strong glass
betrayed a grain of synthetic ultramarine in the background ;
a microscope at Delft proved other pigments to be relatively
modern; an X-ray photograph showed that the panel on
which the portrait was painted had been fastened together
with machine-made nails. So instructive was Professor
Scheffer's examination at Delft, that I procured a micro
scope for testing pigments at Trafalgar Square. Incidentally
it was delightful to see Holland again ; to meet Martin, and
Schmidt-Degener, Dr. Schneider and Willy Sluiter, and the
rest of the cheerful art-circle there. Yet I could not help
regretting the< absence of many picturesque, if insanitary,
relics of the past which Cripps and I had seen in 1890, and
which were now replaced by huge modern blocks of building,
not always beautifal. I shall not forget the visit for another
reason. It was in the hotel at The Hague that the proprietor
brought me a Dutch evening paper containing the first news
of Lord Curzon's last illness.

During these years I dutifully accompanied the New
English Art Club in its wanderings from the Galleries of the
R.B.A. in Suffolk Street to those of the 'Old 5 Water Colour

356

2 ^

tn 2

H Q

PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

Society in Pall Mall (1920)5 and from Pall Mall in 1925 to
Spring Gardens, Southport, Manchester, and back to Spring
Gardens, where it rested for two years before migrating, at
the end of 1927, to the New Burlington Galleries. At
Suffolk Street, I think, the Club reached the zenith of its
fame. Steer, Tonks and their circle could always be relied
upon ; John and Orpen, not yet carried away by the Royal
Academy, formed a second nucleus, round which the younger
generation could gather, and the critics could buzz. When
the Club ceased to have that settled home, instability of
residence produced instability in patronage. From being
the holder of a strong fortress it became one of several
artistic vagrants in the London wilderness.

So far as actual sales were concerned, I found the
Grosvenor Gallery and Messrs. Colnaghi more helpful. The
Grosvenor, being central, accessible, of moderate size,
charmingly decorated, well-lighted, and hung with care
fully chosen pictures, gave the most pleasant exhibitions in
London, and was popular with the intelligent part of
Society. My products were never calculated to create a
sensation, but with Mr. Yockney of the Grosvenor and
Mr. Max Morris of Colnaghi's (not to mention their chief,
Mr. Otto Gutekunst) they found favour, so that between
1919 and 1925, more than a dozen paintings and some forty
or fifty water-colours got sold. This total was helped by a
show of drawings, chiefly Industrial subjects, at Carfax in
1919; by the purchase, in the same year, by Lord Henry
Bentinck, of a group of North-country sketches, now at
Underley ; and by an exhibition of drawings at the Grosvenor
Gallery in 1922.

In the spring of 1924 I was elected an associate of the
Royal Society of Painters in Water-Colours. Since the
Catalogues of that genial Society, like those of the New
English Art Club, will be accessible to the curious, I need
not bore the reader with details of what I exhibited. One
of my best paintings on a small scale, The Lonely Farm,, failed
to find any purchaser for years, until it was discovered by

357

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

Lord Henry Bentinck, and given a place of honour at
Underley. Other favourites were Black Hill Moss (at Mel
bourne) and Fells near Sedbergh (1920), Stormy Afternoon, Colby
Lane (1921), A Farm in Winter (1922), Farmyard, Soberton
(1924)3 and Snow Showers, Cross Fell (1925), which was
rescued by MacEvoy from the studio rubbish heap to which
I had consigned it. In retrospect, however, the quantity of
the stuff produced interests me almost as much as its quality.
Since my official work usually left me too slack or too busy
to paint on Saturday afternoons, and since every alternate
Sunday afternoon was spent at Richmond with my mother,
the rest of the week-end must really have been rather
strenuous.

In 1920 we ended, for the time being, our household
migrations by getting the remains of the lease of 19 Pern-
bridge Gardens, a house in many ways convenient, though
with only a small back-bedroom to serve for a studio. My
operatic education meanwhile was being steadily enlarged,
not only at Covent Garden, but at the Surrey Theatre,
where an attempt to establish opera at popular prices gave
us an introduction to the difficulties and the comedy of
management. Memorable, too, was a hearing of c The
Valkyrie,' my favourite opera, in the pit of the King's
Theatre, Hammersmith; a family treat, with bananas to
celebrate and chasten the eve of a preferment. At Covent
Garden, the first performance of 'Rosenkavalier,' under Sir
Thomas Beecham, provided the greatest thrill. The setting
of the scene in which Oktavian trips up to present the rose
was never afterwards equalled. The old settings, too, of
'Gotterdammerung,' with all their defects, seemed incom
parably better than our recent rationalized versions, where,
at the catastrophic climax, Briinnhilde is not allowed to have
her horse, there is no Valhalla to catch fire, and the collapse
of the great hall is represented by a plank dropping from the
roof of a cart-shed.

My wife, for some years past, had been immersed in Indian
art and history, while preparing and composing c Nur

358

LADY HOLMES
(Photo: Elliot and Fry)

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

Jahan/ the first of her full-sized operas. After some private
or partial performances, this opera was produced in 1927,
6 by kind permission/ at the Parry Memorial Theatre in the
Royal College of Music. In the interval she composed a
musical jest, c Dark Knights/ which was privately performed
in 1924, and afterwards given for two crowded nights in
1928 at c The Venture 3 in Portobello Road. There it was
preceded by 'Roast Pig/ a fantasy based upon Charles
Lamb's essay. Three or four concerts, at Steinway Hall, at
the Serbian Legation by kind permission of the Serbian
Minister and Madame Gavrilovitch, at Leighton House and
at Mrs. Frank Gibson's, provided opportunities for 'trying
out 3 other experiments in composition and orchestration.
But for me the oddest sensation was caused by the composer's
appearance at a Wimpole Street fancy-dress party as the
Emperor Jahangir. So complete was the disguise that neither
her sex nor her race, much less her identity, were recognized
at first. I can still remember the look of utter amazement
upon the face of our hostess-cousin as this grim, bejewelled
apparition advanced from the doorway. Madame de
Nevosky, a friendly Russian prima-donna, had lent for the
occasion a magnificent collection of ornaments made in Paris
for her appearance in c Alda/ so that the customary marks
by which ladies recognize at a glance the transformations of
their intimates were wanting on this occasion. Even I
found it hard to believe that the sombre, dusky potentate,
surrounded by those fresh, English faces, was not really an
Oriental.

But I am easily taken in. Before a lunch at St. James's
with the ladies Gleichen, I was introduced to a trim-bearded
gentleman in plus-fours. His name I did not catch, but he
looked like the typical artist of the 'eighties in a Du Maurier
drawing. At table he sat just opposite, and suddenly made
such a jest as only one man known to me could make : it
was the protean Walter Sickert. Had I myself been a born
raconteur, or even conversationally pliable, I might have
enjoyed to the full the social diversions to which I was now

359

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

introduced. But in the presence of great or brilliant persons
I become mute, either from respect for genius or from
narrowness of experience. Other people seemed to know all
the latest books, plays and films, as well as the celebrities,
English or Parisian, who make Society. I had no time to
read anything, see anything, or remember anybody outside
my office, where any little intelligence I had was always
needed, and used up.

Nevertheless I received much kindness. Luxmoore asked
me down to Eton, and showed me all that had recently been
done there. As the guest of the Provost, I witnessed the
celebration of Founder's Day, and nearly perished of cold
through forgetting to pack proper underclothing. Discom
fort of another kind occurred when I attended a big dinner
with a bemedalled guest, where, owing to some mistake, we
were allotted places next to the scullions. Worse, far worse,
however, was the evening when, after a dinner at Stationers'
Hall, I had walked round from my house to settle with a
neighbour about a day's fishing. Returning, I was met in
the road by an agitated Nannie. A telephone message had
been received from a certain address. e The Queen had
arrived and they had sat down to dinner without me.
Would I please come along at once. 3

I then remembered that, some ten days before, I had
found myself seated at lunch next to a singularly pleasant
lady, who had said something about my coming to meet
one whom I judged to be some relative. Since no invita
tion had arrived, the matter had gone out of my mind.
Now there was nothing for it but to reform my dress as best
I could, bundle into a taxi, and get to the house. Sure
enough, in the drawing-room, there sat the Queen, looking
magnificent, in the midst of a company whose stars and
orders and knee-breeches made me more flustered than
ever. Though the Queen and all the others were kindness
itself to the lump of apologizing misery, he was too frightened
to venture near the house again.

Of other hosts, Lord Lascelles and Sir Philip Sassoon were

360

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

the most splendid. Sir Evan Charteris the most varied and
catholic in his sympathies. At his table, Sargent and John,
Charles Whibley, Mr. Winston Churchill and everyone else
seemed completely at ease. One Saturday Mr. Churchill
took me round to his studio to see his paintings. Like the
little Professor I was, and remain, I could not help trying
to teach him the value of a scale of tones in constructing a
picture. But he, very naturally, preferred his own way of
going ahead, hit or miss, trusting, as in his politics, to his
exceptional gift for improvisation, his instinctive vigour.
Inter alia he casually mentioned that his fine studio had been
built with the proceeds of two magazine articles upon
painting.

Of great ladies, none attracted me so strongly and imme
diately as Lady Rothschild. She possessed, and retained to
the end, a serene blend of authority, shrewdness and gentle
ness which reminded me of my grandmother, and one or
two other venerable ladies of the mid- Victorian time, to
whom obedience and affection were accorded automatically
by everyone. In their gracious presence it was impossible
to do otherwise. This distinction seemed to be something
that was now more rare even than the superb Gainsborough
paintings at Tring, or the remarkable sheet of paper which
bears two autographs. The main part of the writing is a
report from Buonaparte to the Directory of what he has done
in Egypt, concluding, c Nous sommes ici dans Petat le plus
satisfaisant, et maitres de tout le pays. 3 The letter was cap
tured at the Battle of the Nile, and underneath Napoleon's
signature are the words c Mark the end. Nelson.'

The late Archbishop of Canterbury calls up similar
memories. Regarded by many as merely an astute diplo
matist, the real simplicity of his character was but gradually
revealed. Dinners and parties at Lambeth might show him
and kind Mrs. Davidson to advantage in their public
capacity; conference might display his penetrating Judg
ment, his practical wisdom; but his humanity and plain
sincerity came out best in private. His simple ways could

361

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

be almost embarrassing. He was profoundly interested in
the collection of paintings at Lambeth, and frequently con
cerned about the conditions of this portrait or that. I did
not so much mind standing on the top of a tall folding step-
ladder while the aged Primate held it steady, more or less,
on the slippery parquet. But when he wanted to carry the
ladder about for me from picture to picture it was necessary
to protest.

Entertainment of a different kind was provided at the
Windham Club, by that redoubtable fisherman Mr. William
Radcliffe. I came to know him through the controversy in
the c Times/ as to the meaning of the Homeric 009 icepas,
which followed the issue of his classic work, e Fishing from
theEarliestTim.es. 3 In spite of Mr. RadclifFe's Balliol record,
in spite of the authority of Dr. A. J. Butler, who in his
c Sport in Classical Times ' has since made an intensive
study of the Greco-Roman writers upon angling, I still
maintain that no fisherman in his senses would attempt to
attract his quarry by heaving any sort of leaded ox-horn
at their heads. The phrase must mean nothing more than a
plummet, cast into the shape of (/cara) a horn.

Trout-fishing had now become my only open-air recrea
tion. It is true that in Westmorland I got a few days'
shooting every season with my brothers-in-law, though the
grouse, hares, partridges, and even the rabbits, seemed to
get fewer and fewer as the years went by. But my real
exercise-ground was the Eden at Castle Bank. Immediately
opposite the house, a weir crossed the river. Below it, a
very short stretch of fast water, much harried by local
anglers, provided practice with the wet fly. Above it, for
half-a-mile or more, lay a deep still reach wherein a fair
stock of trout, averaging three to the pound, invited and
defied capture. For years, the fishers for the pot on the
opposite bank so corrupted the taste of these trout, by fishing
for them with maggots and a float, that they became ground-
feeders. At the same time the motor came into general
use, and the branch of the Great North Road which runs

362

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

down the Eden Valley drained its washings of petrol and
lubricants into the river, till the water-born Ephemeridae
were gradually killed off. So when the maggot-fishers had
committed suicide, by reducing the carrion-fed trout to
horrors which no fishmonger would buy, and the partial
cessation of their activities gave the trout a chance of surface-
feeding once more, there were practically no flies for them
to feed upon.

They remain dour and unwilling risers; yet tiny black
midges and the like, upon 5x or 6x gut (their sight is
diabolically keen), will occasionally tempt them. High
banks, much overgrown, with a barbed-wire fence behind,
make casting an expensive problem; to land a fish is a
perpetual adventure. When a spate has coloured the water
and set it in slow motion, there may, in warm weather, be
a genuine rise for an hour or two. At all other times angling
there is a pure academic exercise, a Barmecidal sport, a
Modernist art, unpolluted by any connexion with material
results. Even when some cautious fish has at last been
enticed to take a fly, he seldom lets it get past his bony jaw;
the tiny hook can get no hold there, and with a kick or two
the trout is off again.

In the Mayfly season, my friends at Brasenose still allowed
me a day or two on the Windrush near Witney. Swift, and
weedy and strong, the stream held much besides trout
pike and otters, alas ! and chub in plenty. And it fed the
fish so well that, having little need of any surface dainty,
they grew as capricious as those of the Eden were cunning.
Totally blank days (I have just had three in succession) or
catches of one or two chub were the rule ; a trout was the
exception. But the trout are such superb fighters, and seem,
now and then, to attain to a size so exceptional, that one
returns -year after year to the water filled with fresh hope.
My particular stimulants are two in number.

For several seasons a big snout used to poke up at a
corner usually inaccessible. But one day a strong east wind
enabled me to get a wet hackle-fly to the eddy. It was

363

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

seized at once by the big fish, which, after boring chub-like
into the depths, drifted down clumsily to me. There lay a
huge brown trout of six or seven pounds weight, so fat that
he could hardly swim, within a few inches of my net.
Suddenly there was a sickening relaxation of the strain ; the
fish wobbled back to his corner, and I was left to curse a
hook which had straightened out.

Eight years later my heart leaped again as something
gigantic splashed at a Mayfly, not twenty yards away.
This time I took no risks. In my cap was an undamaged fly
that had taken a two-pounder that very morning. I tested
the hook, used a Turle knot, and tested everything again
with strong jerks, before risking a cast over the weeds to get
at the giant. He had the fly in a moment, and tore off down
stream towards a pool with a guardian willow root. Though
I backed into the meadow, gripping hard on the line till my
rod, a very powerful one, bent nearly double, I could neither
stay nor divert the amazing weight and violence of the force
opposed to me. Never have I felt the like. The fish reached
the willow, and once more came that fatal slackening. He
was off, and I reeled in a mangled fly, the whole point of the
hook smashed away, the shank twisted as if by a pair of
strong tweezers. Year after year the thrill of that tremendous
experience entices me to the place ; year after year I bring
back little or nothing to my sceptical family. I have never
actually taken a trout there of more than sf Ibs.; ij Ibs.
seems to be the average; and weeds or flaws in tackle reduce
by half such few captures as the easterly gales, which now
dominate the Mayfly season, leave for me to attempt.

Now and then North-country practice has come in useful
upon South-country waters. In the Bourne, immortalized
by Mr. Plunket Greene, a Snipe-and-Purple caught trout
which disdained its floating counterpart, the Iron Blue. In
the Meon, on a cold windy day, a biggish sunken Greenwell
took 31 fish, of which I had to keep four brace, to confound
sundry sceptics at the Inn. Once, on the Gade, I had the
horrid experience of fishing before a crowd collected on the

364

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

bridge above me, for a trout lying almost out of reach. Of
course, after I had waded in to my limit, the fly caught on
a thistle behind, and I had solemnly to wade to land and
begin all over again. But I got that trout in the end with,
quite accidentally, a second fish. As I stood nearly waist-
deep among the weeds, one strand of them swayed slightly;
another did likewise; evidently something was moving
slowly through the under-water forest. A few yards ahead
lay an opening in the greenery perhaps two feet across.
On to this I pitched my Welshman's Button, and waited.
In less than half a minute the fly was quietly sucked down
and the fish well hooked.

But enough of these rare red-letter days. In general, fish
seem to have grown too clever to be hooked upon any
"points' that are not too fine to hold them. I can't think
my casts are responsible; Mr. Dunne's preparation really
seems to give drawn gut a new lease of life. Does the fault
then lie with the rod? Must I discard the noble casting-
engines that Messrs. Farlow have built for me, which will
lift a wet line above almost any obstruction on the bank
behind, and revert to the gentler action of the c Boys' * rods
made by Messrs. Hardy? On the Eden, at least, I seem to
lose fewer flies in branches, fences and fish, when using this
cheap and admirable substitute for the orthodox split-cane.
But it would require the mind of a Charles Darwin to work
out the pros and cons of the matter, and the pen of a Bernard
to make the result worth reading.

365

CHAPTER XIX

THE NATIONAL GALLERY (ii)
(1919-1925)

Voluntary and other assistants ; redecoration and rearrange
ment ; handbooks, photographs, lectures, music ; help from
Parliament ; the Lane and Chantrey Bequests ; Sir Aston Webb ;
some notable pictures ; two cause trouble ; death of Claude
Phillips and other good friends ; a claim by the Inland
Revenue ; Lord Curzon's last years.

BEFORE silent thankfulness for the signature of the Armistice
had time to find vent in cries of joy, we were pleading with
the Treasury for a junior assistant. To set in motion the
multifarious machinery of the Gallery, and to keep it
running, was more than two pairs of hands could possibly do.
Voluntary help we had already received from Mr. Fred
Wallop, a good judge of English pictures, a fountain of
information upon social topics or family pedigrees, and from
Henry Oppenheimer, jolHest of financiers, collectors and
friends. When the War began, c Hen. Op. J had severed, at
a heavy cost, his connexion with the firm of Speyer Bros.
Then, as already related, his prompt action enabled us to
secure the Tube station for the storage of our treasures.
Finally he worked under us as a clerk, seeming happiest
when his tasks were the humblest. Born and bred in
Germany, he had countless friends and connexions there,
particularly among scholars; yet he supported England
with a single-minded devotion, made all the more admirable
by the sacrifice of old associations which it continually
exacted. I enjoyed his hospitality; I admired the master
pieces in his famous collection ; but it was the man himself
who made these things precious, and left me always wonder
ing how a fortune in the City could ever have been made
by one so essentially simple and good,

366

1919-1925] PERSONAL DIVERSIONS

Our requirements at Trafalgar Square were now too great
to be satisfied by any temporary helpers. Young soldiers
were being set free, and the first who came to us was John
Dodgson. But his desire to be a painter proved too strong,
and the picture upon which he was then engaged, a war
memory of motor-bicycles under repair, showed such ex
ceptional promise as to justify his decision to give up office
work. He was succeeded by R. M. Y. Gleadowe from the
Admiralty, whose talent had been apparent in his under
graduate days at Oxford. A most delicate draughtsman,
his diversity of gifts proved useful in many ways, until he
also found our routine irksome and accepted a mastership
at Winchester. This he afterwards combined with the Slade
Professorship at Oxford. While Gleadowe was ' trying out 3
his mastership, his place was taken by his lively and helpful
friend, Dynely Hussey. When the time came, however, for
a definite Civil Service appointment, the claims of W. G.
Constable, formerly Fellow of St. John's, Cambridge, and
now slowly recovering from the effects of active service, were
so strong that Hussey left us to join the staff of the * Times.*
Constable remained with us from September 1923 to the
time of my retirement, shortly afterwards accepting the
Directorship of the Courtauld Institute, to which he has
recently added the Cambridge Slade Professorship. To
these able assistants, and particularly to his colleague,
Collins Baker, 'his prematurely aged young men* as the
* Times 5 once termed them, the Director owes the best part
of any respectable work that may then have been done at
Trafalgar Square. Mr. H. I. Kay (now Keeper), with
Mr. Booker, Miss Cox, and their admirable photography,
also deserve remembrance well ; as do Wadham and Tyrer
among the attendants.

To collect our scattered pictures from the Tube, from
Overstone and from Cheltenham, was much easier than to
exhibit them. Clerks from the Admiralty, and their appur
tenances, still occupied a large part of the gallery and the
ground floor. The whole place cried aloud for redecora-

367

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

tion, and for many other things. And over us all hung the
black cloud of National Poverty. Having spent umpteen
millions a week on the Arts of War, we had nothing whatever
left for the Arts of Peace. The difficulties were more
apparent than real. In placing all secondary works in a
Reference Section, and reserving the upper rooms for ex
hibiting only the very finest pictures (as at the Portrait
Gallery) 3 we found general support. In the matter of
decoration, the views of the Trustees proved so divergent
that experiment in various styles was a natural result. This
permission, in its turn, was controlled by official orders for
the very strictest economy. Plain paint, and not too much
of that, was all the Nation could afford.

Personally, I wished for nothing better. Paint did not
absorb dust and dirt as woven fabrics do, nor was it so apt
to fade and discolour. The walls, years before, had been
decorated with deep tones of green or red, now grown dark
and heavy. To make the place cheerful, much lighter
schemes were needed. Mr. Brown, the foreman painter of
the Office of Works, proved an expert ally, and on one
occasion, where the paint had been laid too uniformly,
Gleadowe and I took brush in hand after closing hours, and
in two or three strenuous evenings stippled a mosaic over a
whole room. Not all the rooms yielded to treatment so
easily as No. XXI, where the original ground was of silver,
but in Room XXVI an unexpectedly rich effect came from
hatching a thin coat of gray over the original deep red.
As the Siena Gallery had served as model for the white walls
of Room I, so the Sacristy of S. Lorenzo suggested a scheme
from which the stark ferro-concrete of our office passages
derived a certain dignity, the pietra serena effect being pro
duced by clever Mr. Brown with a pad of sacking.

While the rooms round the Dome were still filled with
Admiralty desks and chairs they had a striking resemblance
to a cruciform church. This resemblance we now utilized
by grouping in them our large Italian altar-pieces, which had
hitherto dwarfed all pictures of moderate size hung near

368

1919-2925] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

them. In this e church' the altar-pieces found something
like their natural setting; the walls elsewhere were freed
from their disproportionate magnitude, and if the light
sometimes was rather dim, that was not inappropriate to
religious tradition.

The chill winds of economy blighted one much-needed
improvement. The roofs of two rooms at the east end of the
building had to be reconstructed. As the rooms were much
too high to show pictures to advantage, we took the oppor
tunity of trying to get them made lower, but in vain. To
put them right would add to the expense. That was not all.
In the course of the discussion, plans got through which left
them too dark as well as too lofty. We took special care to
avoid both these faults when designing the Mond Room.
In its simple way this shows the pictures admirably, and
suggests that elaborate schemes for avoiding reflections are
superfluous if walls are really well lighted.

After a little skirmishing, we were allowed to publish
postcards, photographs, catalogues and guide-books on our
own account, with our Lewis Fund to serve for working
capital. Previous apprenticeship to publishing now came in
useful. While Baker applied himself to postcards and photo
graphs, I compiled an Illustrated Guide to the place, on a
plan developed from the Boston Museum Handbook. Being
more attractive in looks, if much less informative, than an
Official Catalogue, this Guide had an immediate success.
The annual sale ran into five figures, and the 400 profit,
when added to the still greater profit from photographs,
made a pleasant contribution to our Purchase Funds. A
few diehards might sneer at the gay Catalogue Stall as
degrading the Gallery to the level of a shop, but the public
interest which it evoked, quite apart from the profits, was
enough to console us. Of the photographic studio, fitted
up by H.M. Office of Works, we were particularly proud.

The attraction of the public by lectures might also have
been held up, but for the invaluable support of Lord
Sudeley . That smiling enthusiast, undeterred by any rebuffs,

369

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

compelled unwilling, embarrassed Members of both Houses
of Parliament to visit the Gallery, agitating everywhere with
such good-humoured persistence that the barriers of re
trenchment gave way. A lecturer was restored to us in the
capable person of Hubert Wellington, who, like most of
those who helped us then, has now passed on to more
profitable employment.

Another product of National Poverty was an increase from
two to four in the number of paying-days per week, the extra
receipts being credited to our Purchase Grant. By institut
ing a series of musical performances on one of these paying-
days, we made a little extra money, and started a fashion
which has since become popular elsewhere. Gleadowe had
the bright idea ; Sir Hugh Allen blessed it ; my wife helped
with details, and all was, going well, when two successive
November fogs, by depleting our audience, compelled us to
stop during the winter of 1922-3. The start had been made
in July by a quartet from the Royal College of Music ; The
Kendall Quartet, The Royal Academy of Music, the Hill
Rivington Quartet, the Snow Quartet, and the Cathie
Quartet were the other performers. Before the music could
be resumed in the spring, the extra paying-days, its raisons
d'Stre, were abolished.

They had never been a popular institution, though the
only overt protest was a procession in Trafalgar Square of
art students, carrying a banner and headed by an impulsive
friend ; a distinguished artist, and a Trustee of the Tate
Gallery! Another procession, and another banner, cele
brated the late Lord Leverhulme's decapitation of his por
trait by Augustus John. The caricature-banner was left on
our steps, and may still be reposing somewhere in the Gallery
cellars. Our feelings towards this performance were modi
fied by the fact that Lord Leverhulme had outbidden us at
Christie's for a very fine Catalan primitive, and had declined
to transfer his purchase to the Nation when we begged him
to do so.
The increased cost of living now called for a general re-

THE NATIONAL GALLERY

consideration of salaries. At the conference on the subject,
we were even more dismayed than amused by the superb
indifference to the things of this world shown by certain
eminent colleagues. They felt it beneath the dignity of Art
and Scholarship to ask for better pay, quite forgetting, in
their unselfishness, that their less well-to-do subordinates
could not afford such princely abnegation. Salaries are
strictly graded, and the underlings would inherit all the
pains of self-denial with none of its glory. Of course the
heroic gesture was applauded by the official economists ; it
foreshadowed a great and wholly unexpected saving. But,
rather incautiously, they went on to improve the occasion,
pointing out how unimportant Art and Scholarship really
were to the Country, compared with their own practical
administrative labours. This sweeping pronouncement was
rather too much for our Trustees : it led to a protest and a
rational settlement.

The provision of funds, not only for current purchases,
but for saving our artistic heritage from the natural ambition
of American millionaires, was constantly debated by the
Board. Our Parliamentary Bills had been dropped, but
innumerable schemes. Memoranda and Conferences, for
passing on the expense to other people, by an Export Duty
upon Works of Art, a Stamp Duty upon all Sales, or a Tax
upon Auction Sales, occupied a vast amount of time, and
invariably came to nothing. A plan suggested by Mr.
Winston Churchill, when Chancellor of the Exchequer, was
in my opinion the most practical of the lot. Perhaps for that
reason it was also the most short-lived.

Real progress began in 1921; when the powers at the
Treasury, having discovered us to be sensible, became sym
pathetic. About the same time Sir Philip Sassoon was
appointed a Trustee. Young, rich and clever, like the hero
in a novel by Disraeli, he was in touch with all the great ones
of the day, and so was able to do us more than one notable
service. I had discussed with Sir Richard Hopkins the possi
bility of an amendment to the Finance Act, whereby art

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

treasures of National importance could be freed from Estate,
Legacy and Succession Duties if they were sold to National
institutions. This amendment Sir Philip promptly proposed
and carried in the House of Commons. Owners, at last, had
a substantial inducement to give the Nation the first refusal
of anything which they wished to sell. Sir Philip followed
up this initial success by obtaining, in the course of a debate
in 1922, an undertaking from the Chancellor to help liberally
towards the retention in England of a few works of the very
highest importance should they ever come into the market.
This undertaking, renewed by successive Governments,
solved the gravest of our financial problems.

Such a provision had been the ideal of our e Burlington 3
days. In working out the details we were most generously
helped by Sir George Barstow, but my personal explanation
of them to the Chancellor, Sir Robert Home, nearly proved
a ridiculous fiasco. There was so much to say that I could
say nothing, and had not Sassoon come to the rescue the
appeal must have failed completely. Two considerations,
doubtless, induced a tolerant reception. The list of irre
placeable works was very short ; and most of the pictures
upon it were unlikely to come upon the market for some
time, if ever. Not one, indeed, was purchased during my
term of office, but shortly after my retirement the Gallery
was able to acquire, by this provision, the 'Wilton Diptych'
and the great c Cornaro ' Family by Titian.

England was not the only country exposed to the enter
prise of transatlantic collectors. America, it was rumoured,
had formed a great syndicate to purchase, for some two and
a half millions, the pick -of the treasures of the Vienna
Gallery. On the other hand, if Vienna were to deposit
some ten or twelve of these masterpieces on loan to the
National Gallery, for a period, say, of ten years, the pictures
would serve as a e token * acknowledgment of a money loan
of far greater value, and Austria would be saved from the
necessity of selling her National treasures outright. The idea
was taken up warmly by Lord Curzon, but when the pro-

372

THE NATIONAL GALLERY

posal received open official encouragement, it was swelled
and complicated by claims from other institutions, and from
one of our Allies; was passed on, thus inflated, to the
Reparations Commission, and there collapsed in the wind
of international talk.

My chief memory of the business is that of a journey to
Paris. At Boulogne, a middle-aged stranger handed over
to my charge a rather attractive young niece, and then
abruptly vanished. She would be met by her aunt, Madame

de ? at the Gare du Nord. She was not met. As we

waited and waited on the platform my embarrassment
increased; the whole thing was too like an incident in a
novel. If my mission had been of momentous import, I
should have suspected a plot. Anyhow, I was too old for
romance. It was a relief to find the nameless young lady
to be even more uncomfortable. She was afraid either to
drive to her aunfs house alone, or to let me know the address
and give her a lift. This last she had eventually to do, and
her relief at falling into the arms of friendly retainers at the
door of a mansion near the Madeleine was as genuine as
mine at being rid of her. But I had delayed too long. My
room at the hotel had been filled. Paris was crowded, and
in the end I found myself tramping the street, with my bag,
in steady rain, unable to find either a taxi or a bed for the
night. In this outcast condition I appealed to a passing
nurse. She directed me to a discreet hotel, patronized
chiefly by royalties and ambassadors, where I was per
mitted to have the use of an attic. The bill next morning
made me thankful that it was not a bedroom.

The controversy over the Lane Bequest was a persistent
intruder upon regular work. Lane's promises had been
made to Aitken and MacColl, so had Duveen's offer of a
Modern Foreign Gallery to render the Bequest effective;
yet we, at Trafalgar Square, had to keep an eye upon the
innumerable documents and arguments which each party
brought forward. It was lucky that we did so. The
Government, always eager to give Ireland the benefit of

373

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

any doubt, was most anxious that no injustice should be
done to those who claimed that a signed but unwitnessed
sheet of notepaper, discovered some time after Lane's death
among his miscellaneous effects, ought to take precedence of
his formal, legal Will.

One afternoon I was suddenly ordered to bring down the
Lane papers to a Committee of the Cabinet. I crammed
the bulky file into an attache-case and hurried to Whitehall
to hand it over. Instead, I found myself ushered into the
presence of the Committee itself, and expected to state the
English case in answer to the Irish Secretary. Looking
round the august assembly, I thought I recognized, in a
smiling countenance just opposite, a distinguished Civil
Servant with whom I had a nodding acquaintance at my
Club ; so I nodded to him, by way of encouraging myself,
before settling down to receive Mr. Ian Macpherson's attack.
Happening to take off my glasses a few minutes later, I saw
to my dismay that I had been mistaken, and had claimed
acquaintance with Mr. Stanley Baldwin.

The Irish plea, though eloquently stated, had a disputable
foundation in fact, and no legal validity. It was not there
fore difficult, even without preparation or first-hand know
ledge, to put the case for common sense, and I was much
struck, as were others, by that quality when it came to
Mr. Baldwin's turn to speak. To reverse a recent and
formal testamentary disposition by Sir Hugh Lane, whose
soundness of mind and business capacity were beyond all
question, would be to violate a basic principle of the law of
the land, and would open the way to endless abuses. The
Committee in consequence recommended, if I remember
rightly, a sharing of the French Collection by means of
generous loans to Dublin. This partition the Trustees
approved and offered, in vain. Some years later, a special
Government Committee of Three was appointed to recon
sider the evidence and, with the best will in the world, could
come to no other conclusion. The Committee interested
me because one of the three was Major J. W. Hillsj whose

374

1919-1925] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

c Summer on the Test 5 is, I think, the finest description
extant of modern trout-fishing and I am not forgetting
Mr. Halford, Lord Grey, Mr. H. T, Sheringham, Mr.
Skues, Mr. Plunket Greene and other masters of the fly-
rod and the pen.

The untiring energies of the Tate Gallery were now
partially diverted by contention with the Royal Academy
for a share in choosing the pictures bought for exhibition
at Millbank from the Chantrey Bequest. Some reform was
essential, and I quickly learned to respect the abilities of
the President, Sir Aston Webb, in reconciling this necessity
with the stubborn resistance to all reform offered by certain
veteran members of his Council. As an architect Sir Aston
might be more successful than heaven-sent ; as a diplomatist
he had few equals. Once, being interested in an Academic
election, he spent the night before it at Oxford with the
Vice- Chancellor, Dr. Farnell. Hardly had the proceedings
opened next day, when that erudite but impressionable
authority, to our amazement, burst out into a denunciation
of the practical value of scholarship. So overwhelming was
it, that it completely swept aside the claims of the most
eminent among the candidates, and Sir Aston's man was
very nearly appointed on the spot, because he alone was not
a scholar. An adjourned meeting did something to restore
proportion. Freed from the spell of Sir Aston's magic, the
Chairman now pronounced for scholarship as definitely as
he had condemned it a week earlier. Personally, when
settling occasional differences between ourselves and the
Royal Academy, I found it a great help to be able to discuss
them with one so shrewd, so sensible and so friendly as the
President. We both tacitly recognized the difficult material
which he had to handle, and the Academy owes not a little
of its present reputation for tolerance to the tact and
moderating influence displayed by Sir Aston Webb during
that critical time.

Our main business, of course, was to secure the pictures
which the Gallery ought to have. At the moment of our

375

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

supreme penury, the c Wilton Diptych' gave us a bad fright.
It was, apparently, on offer to a friendly firm at ^40,000.
In despair I wrote to Mr. Bonar Law and asked for the
money. He offered us half: the rest must be raised by
subscription. Any public appeal, at the time, was impos
sible. I therefore wrote again, asking for a promise of the
whole sum, explaining (on the strength of a remark of Lord
Lansdowne's) that the money would probably not be needed,
but that the effect upon the credit of the Nation in the Art
Market would be immense. Mr. Bonar Law very nobly
gave us the guarantee; the money was not required after
all, but the reality of the Gallery's financial backing was
established for good. Since we had all the time to compete
with the vast resources of America, this confidence was
essential to any serious negotiation.

In 1919 Prince Youssoupoff suddenly appeared with his
two famous Rembrandt portraits, still concealed by the
c Modernist' canvases under which he had contrived to
bring them out of Russia. Thrilling as was his account of
the death of Rasputin, the story of his own escape, in the
disguise of an art student, with the family jewels swathed
round his body in long, painful chains, was no less vivid.
Trying indeed must the moment have been when a Kom-
missar, much interested in the arts, took a fancy to one of
the Prince's first experiments in painting, and wanted to
buy it, in ignorance of the fact that it covered a Rembrandt
masterpiece. He was put off with difficulty, and the promise
of a still better work when the student had acquired a little
more experience.

How uncertain conditions in Russia still were, we learned
from other sources. At one time I had to prepare a valua
tion of the principal pictures in the Hermitage Gallery,
owing to a rumour that they were shortly to be sold. Shortly
before, the Gallery had sent a young official to us to learn
how we kept our pictures in good condition. He painted
the Russian situation in rosy hues. His Director was a
personal friend of Lenin, and through him the officials of

THE NATIONAL GALLERY

the Gallery had every kind of privilege. Two years later
he wrote to me from Paris, and his letter began : c I have
now escaped from Russia. 3

We made a point of seeing everyone who called at the
Gallery with pictures for sale. In general this was a sad
waste of time, for the paintings offered were either things
we didn't want, or utter rubbish. But one day a cosmo
politan gentleman came to ask if he could get us anything
in Austria. I happened to remember the only known
masterpiece by Brueghel which was in private possession,
and modestly asked for that. Off he went, and presently
quoted 50,000. Our price was 15,000. The picture
changed hands, and the new owner, a pleasant fellow, asked
successively 30,000, 22,500 and finally 15,000, But
the negotiations had lasted so long that all our little money
had been spent. So The Adoration of the Kings could only
be paid for in instalments, with generous help from the
National Art-Collections Fund and from a new benefactor,
Mr. Arthur Serena.

The art of Romney, being as much depreciated by
common, clever critics as it is over-valued by dealers, is a
thing which the politic Director will eschew. But the big
Beaumont Family illustrated Romney's clean, masterly brush-
work, and his unique perception of English character, so
much better than anything which we possessed, that I had
to advocate the unfashionable purchase. Far more popular,
of course, with the critics was The Agony in the Garden, by
Greco. This came over with a hole right through the
canvas, and a coating of greasy filth, in the middle of which
two small spaces, recently cleaned, shone out bright and
livid. The Board, to whom Greco's manner would anyhow
have been objectionable, were naturally horrified at the sight.
I did my best, but the Trustees were equally divided when
it fell to Lord Curzon to give the decisive vote. Glancing
over his shoulder at the unhappy canvas, he remarked, C I
would not myself give that much,' here he snapped his
fingers, e for the picture, but after what the Director has said

377

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

I have no option but to vote for it. 3 When we came to
clean it, we found that the tough covering of grease and dirt
had acted as a preservative, and that the paint had escaped
the granular desiccation which is, apt to attack all pictures
exposed to the climate of Madrid.

We had long possessed a fine Trinity by Pesellino, known
to be the centre portion of a larger altar-piece, which had
been cut up some eighty years ago. Lady Brownlow now
bequeathed to us an angel belonging to it. We were able
to buy the corresponding angel from Lady Henry Somerset,
and to obtain, through Lionel Oust, the loan from the King
of two beautiful figures of Saints, one of the Prince Consort's
far-sighted purchases. A few years later, the remaining
figures were discovered in the Kaiser's private collection,
in the Schloss at Berlin, where I went to see them. Negotia
tions for the purchase of this fragment dragged on, and were
not concluded at the time of my retirement. But the altar-
piece as now reconstructed is something of a curiosity, since
to no other single painting have the Monarchs of England
and Germany, the National Gallery and two great ladies,
each contributed a piece.

The sensation of the time was the sale of Gainsborough's
Blue Boy to America. We had forwarded an English offer of
70,000 for the picture, but that was not enough to save it.
We had to content ourselves with the sixpences from entrance
fees during its exhibition in January 1922. Our beautiful
Quinten Massys reminds me, chiefly, of a wild night drive
in a small open car, after a dinner at which Mr. Charles
Clarke most generously agreed to give it to the Nation.
The great Christ before Pilate, of Honthorst, discovered by
Gleadowe, cost us only 200, and a small controversy as
to whether the judge represented is Pilate or Caiaphas.
Another 200 purchase, the little Montefeltro family group,
led to more recondite questioning. Personally, I thought it
might prove to be one of the rare essays in the painting by
the architect, Bramante; Mr. J. P. Heseltine, quite inde
pendently, came to the same conclusion. Many, including

378

1919-1925] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

Claude Phillips, suspected it for a forgery; Buttery and
Holder, in consequence, submitted the worm-eaten panel to
ordeals by heat, water, and various solvents. It resisted
them all ; and remains a problem.

Trouble of another sort was occasioned by Ochtervelt's
Music Party > which we first saw in a shop-window. Not till
after we had bought the painting did a photograph in the
Witt Collection reveal a large dog in the foreground, which
had, most ingeniously, been painted over. Fortunately the
performer of the vanishing trick was known, and he brought
back the missing animal, with consummate ease, in less than
an hour. No surprise, however, was so complete as that
occasioned by a visitor with an attache-case. From this he
produced a parcel in a silk handkerchief; and from the
handkerchief the precious Nativity by Geertgen Tot Sint Jans.

Other pictures were not acquired so easily. Two fine
examples of Holbein, after long discussion with the owners,
never came actually within our reach. The famous Man in
a Fur Cap, by Karel Fabritius, caused us a whole series of
anxieties. It was to be put up at Christie's, but Lord Curzon
was confident that he could get it withdrawn and sold to us
privately. I had information that this was impossible,
c My dear Director,' replied our Chairman, 'you must re
member that I have infinitely more experience of Sales and
Auctions than you,' and off he went to King Street. His
mission having failed, the Board had to settle how much they
should bid. The Trustees consented to go as far as 6500
guineas, and were asked not to appear in the sale-room, lest
by proclaiming the Nation's interest they should stimulate
that of our rivals. Alec Martin would act for us with par
ticular pleasure, since the picture, if secured, would be a
noble memorial to his friend Claude Phillips, from whose
Bequest the purchase price would come.

I had just received by telephone the glad news that Martin
had succeeded in getting the picture for 6300 guineas, when
Lord Lansdowne was announced. He and another Trustee
had kept our intention secret by attending the sale, and were

379

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

glad to see that we had acquired the picture. But, had I not
exceeded the Board's instructions as to price by some 300
guineas? Would I mind letting him see the Minutes of the
last Meeting? It was a disquieting question. Years before,
when Sir Edward Poynter had gone a little beyond the
Board's limit in order to secure Hogarth's Quin, Lord
Lansdowne had insisted upon his making good the difference
out of his own pocket. Could I possibly have made a similar
and far more expensive mistake ? I sent for the Minute Book,
and all was well. Faced with the figure of 6500 guineas, my
noble visitor had nothing to say, and took himself off.

Yet our troubles with that Fabritius were not over. The
surface was slightly cracked and very dry : the pigment, in
many places, a mere film of brown, which would suffer in
cleaning unless it were most tenderly handled. One or two
of the Trustees strongly favoured a Continental restorer, of
unquestionable repute and scientific knowledge. Now I
happened to have seen this famous man at work upon
another delicate picture, which the Gallery contemplated
purchasing. His drastic handling so frightened me that I
transferred, on the spot, our official preference to a com
panion work, as yet untouched by him. Yet so great was
the man's reputation, and in many respects so well earned,
that only after considerable debate could I get sanction for
entrusting the Fabritius to less famous but more gentle
fingers. The result of the cleaning was a success, as anybody
can see to-day, and was admitted to be so at the time ; but
I wonder whether success achieved in the face of a convinced
opposition is really politic.

Few things in life seem to excite such profound feeling as
questions of taste in matters of art. You may challenge a
man's political opinions with impunity; you may correct
his facts or figures without rousing more than a smile ; but
to question his judgment as a connoisseur is no laughing
matter. As a simple experiment ; press an Epstein upon a
J.P., or a Romney upon an intellectual. Every such pin
prick leaves its tiny scar behind, and the sum of them may

380

1919-1925] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

mount up in a few years to quite formidable corporate sore
ness. How suddenly the irritation may start, how effectively
it may strangle initiative, was proved by another purchase.

There swam into our ken a painting by a famous master of
the utmost rarity. Thfe work combined uncommon brilliance
of condition with one striking feature which seemed, at the
moment, incongruous. Possibly on this account, the auth
enticity of the -picture was doubted by a member of the
Board who had shown me conspicuous personal kindness,
and was one of our most influential backers. He begged me,
as a friend, not to recommend to the Trustees a work in
which he totally disbelieved. Gratitude and friendship
urged so strongly that I would have yielded to the entreaty
at once, even if the painting had been of considerable im
portance : but I knew this to be a chance which the Gallery
could never get again, and I was taking the Nation's pay
for exercising my personal judgment. The tradition of the
Service forced me to recommend the picture ; I could only
try to mitigate my friend's disappointment by giving the fullest
weight to his objections when stating the case to the Board.

The outcome was disastrous. We acquired the picture
indeed, but its excellence was a poor consolation to me for
the loss of a friend, and of the support which he gave us.
For his influence, transferred to the opposition camp, placed
us thenceforth in a permanent minority, at the mercy of any
resolution which policy or accident might generate, especi
ally when, with Lord Curzon's death, we lost the one Caesar
to whom effective appeal had been possible. When giving
evidence before the Royal Commission in 1928,* I had this

1 * The services of a foreign picture-cleaner were pressed upon him strongly
by certain members of the Board, and on the Director's refusal to take re
sponsibility for the change, he was ordered to report to the Board before any
cleaning of importance was undertaken (January, 1925). Shortly afterwards
the Director was forbidden to make any change in the attribution of pictures
in the Gallery without first reporting to the Board. Two years later the
Trustees rejected the Director's plan for hanging new acquisitions. By these
and other decisions of minor importance, the Director's power of making any
change in the arrangement, repair or labelling of the collections without
risking a conflict with the Board was extinguished. Even the propriety of
his encouraging important gifts to the Gallery was seriously challenged.'

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

constitutional disadvantage in mind. The position in time
became so depressing, so fatal to progress, that I applied in
1926 for permission to retire, in order to take up a provincial
curatorship; much as my colleague Collins Baker had
afterwards to do.

These years were fatal to other friendships. By Lord
Plymouth's death we were deprived of our most staunch
defender among the Trustees. Then Lord Ribblesdale's
health broke down, and he was compelled to resign his seat
on the Board. Seldom intervening in debate, and affecting
to watch our discussions with the detachment of a sportsman
at a street-fight, his friendly presence introduced an atmo
sphere of fair play in which petty animosities did not flourish.
The premature death of Arthur Glutton-Brock affected me
still more closely. As a human being he was great fun,
bubbling over with ideas and enthusiasm, all salted with
disrespect for the popular Press and for pompous persons.

fi Hullo, B m,' once roared a big breezy divine, hailing

Brock in Waterloo Place, slapping him violently on the

back, and using his Eton nickname. ' Hullo, X, you ! '

returned Brock, smiling sweetly in spite of his anguish.
'And you know,' Brock told me afterwards, C X, for once,
looked quite foolish, and hadn't a word to say.'

As a man of letters, Brock was among the foremost of his
day : as an art critic he never attained a position comparable
to that held by Claude Phillips. I have related already how
Phillips, through the "Daily Telegraph/ compelled all Eng
land to recognize the importance of the Arts to civilization,
and the world of amateur connoisseurs to respect trained
scholarship. When that periodic check upon indifference,
arrogance and blundering was withdrawn, the results were
quickly apparent. It is hardly too much to say that with
Claude Phillips there died the general appreciation of the
Arts in England upon which not only Trafalgar Square and
Bloomsbury, but Chelsea and Bond Street, the New English
and the Academy, had existed for thirty years. No man of
any similar gift has since appeared to fill the vacant place;

382

1919-1925] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

and it is not surprising. Standing by his death-bed in the
summer of 1924, I noticed that his features, at rest, assumed
a quite unexpected grandeur.' This had been no ordinary
intellect, but one far more comprehensive and powerful than
we had ever guessed. Then, looking over the mass of his
scribbled letters to me, I realized to the full how fortunate
I had been in having known Claude Phillips so long and
so well.

Nor can I forget two friends in the publishing world who
died six months later. There could be no stronger contrast
to Philip Lee-Warner, eager, impulsive, pugnacious, always
the schoolboy, alwkys in the midst of grand schemes and
hot water, than the cool, diplomatic John Lane, who, after
launching most of the poets and essayists of his day, was
suspected by them all of having made a fortune out of their
little books. The suspicion was rather unjust. As already
mentioned, I did considerable business with Lane, and
found him a keen man of affairs, but reliable and genuinely
proud of giving a fair start to a promising beginner. Money-
making firms avoid any such charitable ventures. To me
Lane was a steady friend. We had common associations
with Cornwall and with Stratton; he took an almost
paternal interest in my doings; his clever wife and her
books were great favourites with all my family. Once they
borrowed from her a magnificent necklace for some domestic
theatricals, and only when she asked rather anxiously for
its return did they learn that the diamonds and emeralds
were real. As for Lee-Warner, the advice I was once sup
posed to give him about books and pictures had long since
expanded into mediation between him and his companions
in business. Among "his partners he seemed to lose the
buoyant humour which made him the most delightful of
friends, and the most unaccountable. But the flame of his
energies burned too fiercely for Lee-Warner's physical
strength. He died comparatively young; yet not before he
had done almost as much for art, through his e Medici'
prints and publications, as John Lane had done for literature.

383

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

I have mentioned the death of Lord Curzon, but before I
touch upon his last years, a few lesser incidents deserve to
be recorded. The complete simplicity with which Mr.
Samuel Courtauld came in to announce his gift of 50,000
for the purchase of Modern Foreign Pictures ; with which
Sir Joseph Duveen offered to build the Sargent Room at
Millbank ; and with which Sir Robert Witt offered me his
wonderful Library of Photographs for Trafalgar Square (all
in June-July 1923), was in refreshing contrast to the diffi
culties over the acceptance of the Claude Phillips Bequest,
and to the protracted bargaining required before the Bequest
of Dr. Mond could be finally arranged. Nor shall I forget
the wretched red drugget, which was all that could be offi
cially provided for the reception of the Crown Prince of
Japan. We rolled the grubby thing up, while Gleadowe
nobly rushed off in a taxi to fetch some of his fine silks and
carpets for our distinguished guest to walk upon. That visit
went off well ; unlike one from the Duke of Connaught,
when a young attendant managed not only to be rude, but
to break the Duke's nice walking-stick.

Less discreditable, but more deeply wounding, was another
experience. I had always paid Income Tax demands with
out question or examination, trusting to the accuracy of my
brother officials. Suddenly the Inland Revenue discovered
that there had been an omission in my assessments, and
claimed first 300, and then 362, for retrospective arrears
during the past five years. I had not the money, and
begged for some compromise, since the mistake was not
mine. Compromise with a Civil Servant could not be
entertained; even two years' time in which to pay was
obtained with difficulty. The possible injustice of the claim
(for I could not really follow the calculations) hurt me far
less than the rigour with which it was pressed.

Considering how to meet the demand, I remembered a
fine drawing by Daumier, which I had intended to present
to the Modern Foreign Gallery. Off it promptly went to
Bond Street, and the 175 which it fetched went to stop

384

19*9-1925] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

the hungry mouth of my Cerberus. But soon he was at me
again; and then a miracle happened. A dealer's agent
pressed me to sell a little painting which I had bought in
my bachelor days. I don't sell my things, and, to put him
off, said the price would be preposterous. Would I name
it? Almost in jest, I added 200 to the highest value I
could think of for such a canvas. The next morning I
received a cheque, and was a free man once more. With
that single exception, I had never sold (or bought) an
old picture since I was married in 1903. The necessity
of this precaution to avoid the tongue of slander was
proved to me two years ago. At a sale, I got a poor 5
portrait to go over my studio mantelpiece. As I paid for
it, a bystander kindly asked; 'What! Are you taking to
dealing? *

In 1922, during the latter part of Lord Lansdowne's
Chairmanship, Lord Curzon seemed to become more and
more involved in high politics, until early in 1923, during
Mr. Bonar Law's last illness, he was Acting Prime Minister.
This prominence brought out his best qualities. One day
he consulted me over the telephone about an appointment
he proposed to make. The candidate was a friend and
thoroughly capable, but too delicate, I feared, for a very
trying post. Lord Curzon disagreed. A week or two later
he sent for me to Carlton House Terrace to consult me about
two pictures. When I had given my reasons for preferring
one to the other, he laid his hand on my shoulder as I was
leaving the room and said, C I think you're a very shrewd
fellow, Holmes.' I stepped out on to the first of the black
and white marble squares in the hall, immensely flattered,
my head swelling. But long before I had got to the footmen
and my hat, common sense returned and I asked myself,
'What does he want? * I could think of nothing, and went
round to my Club for lunch. The first news I saw on the
notice-board was the very appointment I had questioned.
Lord Curzon had just been letting me down kindly. The
best of it was, he proved to be right and I to be wrong.

385

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

His man did excellent service, and did not break down for
nearly three years.

About this time, a previous engagement compelled me to
refuse a dinner invitation at a Club. My would-be host
told me afterwards how much he regretted my absence, for
I should have seen Lord Curzon in a new light. The other
guests had been his Balliol contemporaries, and they started
chaffing the great man, just as they used to do at Oxford.
After a moment's pause, he met them in the same .spirit
and, as of old, became the life and soul of the party.
Finally, one of them walked back with him to Carlton House
Terrace. At his door, Lord Curzon suddenly asked, C I say,

R , have I been giving myself away too much ? J c My dear

George, 3 was the reply, 'had you given yourself away like
that more often, you would have been Prime Minister
long ago.'

The only sign of his disappointment about the Premier
ship which I noticed was an occasional return of his
asperity. Once, at Carlton House Terrace, to which he
was constantly summoning me, he muddled me so that I
clean forgot our official telephone number. Quickly repent
ing, he let me off with his favourite comparison, 'You're as
bad as the Foreign Office. 5 At another time, when I had
prepared for him an elaborate precis of the Mond negotia
tions, he got so vexed with it, and with me, that we were
twenty-five minutes late for the conference at which we
were due. But, as usual, he made his amende honorable when
reporting to the Board, by referring to c the legal aspect of
our case, which was argued by the Director with con
spicuous ability.'

Meanwhile, I fancy, a fresh ambition was maturing. If
he could not be Prime Minister, he would be King in the
world of Art. Two years before, at the Spa Conference,
he had shown his feeling about that. Socialism was in the
air, and the talk turned upon what each of the company
would do if dispossessed of place and income. ' The Law
will always be wanted,' said Mr. Lloyd George. C I should

386

19*9-1925] THE NATIONAL GALLERY

just go back to my solicitor's business. But what about you,
Balfour? 5 C I suppose,' said Lord Balfour, c that I should
attempt to make a sort of living by writing articles on
philosophy and history/ ( And you, Curzon ? 9 ' Oh, I know
all about Pictures and China and Furniture; I should take
up Duveen's line, and make a second fortune/

Succession to the Chairmanship of the National Gallery
Board, which Lord Lansdowne now vacated, was the first
step. Then the celebration of the National Gallery Cen
tenary in the spring of 1924 brought Lord Curzon quickly
to the front of the stage. He enjoyed the prominence. But
instead of mellowing with success, his temper seemed thence
forth to grow more exacting, his judgment more capricious,
his geniality and his sense of humour to be leaving him.
What remained was distinctly formidable. We did all we
could to avoid occasions of offence and keep well in the
background, but his extensions of the Chairman's authority
made it impossible to avoid, now and then, some protest,
or raising of constitutional issues which, under Lord Lans-
downe's rule, had been more or less reasonably determined.
The strain had grown almost too much for our nerves when
the end suddenly came. Not till much later did it dawn
upon me that we had been dealing with one who, despite
appearances, was already a very sick man.

At the time of Lord Curzon's death, this bruised condition
prevented us, I think, from estimating him fairly. As he
thrust forward, lapped in proof, he never quite saw how
grievously a casual buffet might hurt men less well-armed for
the melee. In after-thought, in the light of later experiences,
he stands out to better advantage. When he fought, he fought
in person; never stooping to decide a doubtful issue by
intrigue at headquarters, by cabals, espionage, detraction,
the resources of lesser men. Even his pride was not so much
the pride of caste of that he had less than was imputed
as a disdain for all, whatever their birth, who were unequal
to his demands. Accustomed to flattery, he accepted it,
and used it himself, as a form of address ; suspecting it only

387

SELF AND PARTNERS [1919-1925

when it was unexpected. Having once backed a cause, he
did not retreat or stand aside at the first show of opposition,
with what, in high circles, passes for diplomacy and common
people call funk. Like Lord Lansdowne he preserved the
forms and sanity of debate, listening patiently to both sides
and summing up with a singular absence of personal bias.
One might fail to convince ; but from him one seldom failed
to get a fair hearing.

Whether this judicial temper, coupled with his other
remarkable gifts, would have carried him through as Premier,
is a question which contemporary opinion answered in the
negative; and perhaps rightly. The jarring crises, the
constant personal concessions, of democratic government
were ill-suited to one who regarded politics as the most
lofty of human callings. Had his chance come a century
earlier, when a Minister might bear himself as an Olympian,
even as a slightly florid Olympian, he would have been just
the man for the part, taking BrummelPs rather reluctant
arm, and bandying pleasantries with the Prince Regent, as
the one whose place in that Georgian Trinity was certainly
not the lowest.

388

EPILOGUE

REPRESENTATIONS from several quarters, quite independent
of each other, urge me to place on record the evidence
which I gave in 1928 before the Royal Commission on
National Museums and Galleries. The matter of course
falls outside the period of this book : the Report of the
Commission was issued years ago, and any opinions not
represented in it are, for all immediate purposes, as dead
as Queen Anne. Yet my views on two points, though not
expressed perhaps as I should express them now, still seem
sound enough to be worth remembering when the affairs
of the National Gallery next come before the public eye.
I am therefore so far acceding to my correspondents'
wishes as to reproduce just the paragraphs which bear
directly upon these two points, and nothing else. The
two points are :

(1) The desirability of defining the Director's power to

decide purely technical questions.

(2) The desirability of recovering and exhibiting at

Trafalgar Square a group of the later water-colours
by Turner.

On the first point I have already said enough. The
need for some constitutional reform has been illustrated
by a recent case, whereby it was shown that an officer of
the Gallery has no valid protection against alleged in
justice, nor any remedy but resignation of his post and his
rights to a pension.

The sad plight of the Turner water-colours now pricks
me far more sharply than any of these bygone anomalies.

389

SELF AND PARTNERS

Not half-a-dozen of Turner's exhibited oil-paintings illus
trate the quintessence of his genius the supremely fascinat
ing borderland where Painting touches the frontier of
Music as do these enchanting sketches. The best of them
are unique in the whole history of the graphic arts, opening
up such visions of light and colour and etherealized form
as we find nowhere else.

Turner indeed is our Wagner, and it passes comprehension
why we should now entomb his most triumphant products
in remote portfolios, instead of keeping, as heretofore, a
small selection on view at Trafalgar Square, where anyone
can look in, en passant, and refresh himself for a few moments
in the light of their beauty. The Print Room of the
British Museum is a charming place when once you
have got there, with an hour or two at your disposal for
study. The mass of Turner's sketches could not be in
safer custody, but a few of the best deserve to be made
more accessible.

I have always wished to see one room at the National
Gallery devoted to Oriental painting : the contrast to our
European modes of vision would be a valuable stimulus
to design. Yet good Oriental paintings would have to be
found, chosen and, frequently, purchased. The still more
thrilling and instructive sketches by Turner in his final
phase are already the property of the National Gallery,
but we are taking such care of them that they cannot be
seen there, or elsewhere, except by those with youthful legs
and unlimited leisure. Possessing neither of these quali
fications, I find myself cut off from the very form of art
which delights me most. When I think of the arguments
that were used to get these precious drawings away from
Trafalgar Square to Millbank, of the flood there, and of
their subsequent burial in the British Museum, my feelings
almost get the better of me, and persuade me to conclude
this little Testament, like Malachi, with a curse. I will
leave it as a prayer to the powers that be.

390

EPILOGUE

(i) The Administrative Problem I

c Our system of purchase under the 1894 Minute, and as still
further defined by The Lansdowne Resolutions of June, 1902,
is one of purchase by Committee. The system has one dis
advantage which is generally admitted, in that it tends to
compromise, and to the loss of works of outstanding power and
originality. All the greatest works of art have in them some
element of the surprising and the unusual, to which the trained
professional judgment is attracted immediately, but which is
apt to shock the amateur at first sight, so that to him appreciation
comes more slowly, and perhaps not at all. In consequence,
one or two cautious members of a Committee, especially if
they happen to be powerful and distinguished personages, may
influence the rest by their hesitation, and block the purchase
of the very works which by their surprising character should
be the chief attractions of a great Gallery. Agreement will be
reached only in the case of works which are inoffensive to
all, and therefore supremely interesting to nobody. This
was precisely what ' happened during the first 30 years of the
Gallery's existence. The explosion that followed a long series
of commonplace acquisitions of the Committee system cleared
the way for the reforms of 1855, and purchase by an independent
Director. This proved to be the making of the Gallery.

So much for theory. In practice, during my term of office,
the Board, with one or two exceptions, and these not supremely
important, has always acted on the Director's recommendation.
But this apparent uniformity has brought one curious and serious
disability in its train. Several of the most notable purchases
have been made only at the cost of considerable controversy.
Each controversy tends to leave a little bitterness behind, a
bitterness which perhaps is inevitable where a man's personal
taste seems to be at issue, and to be flouted by the purchase of
a picture which he dislikes. In time this creates a very real
difficulty for an active Director. Whenever he obtains a
majority vote for a purchase, he runs the risk of alienating the
confidence of friends in the minority, who cannot on this occasion
see eye to eye with him. They prefer some other school, some
other type of work, or may be frankly suspicious of the picture
in question. In time the cumulative result of these disappoint-

1 These and one or two shorter quotations are reprinted, by kind permission
of the Controller of H.M. Stationery Office, from < Oral Evidence Memoranda,
etc., of the Royal Commission on National Museums and Galleries ' (London,
H.M. Stationery Office, 1938. Price 1, is. net).

39 1

SELF AND PARTNERS

ments will be to create a strong body of doubt, if not of definite
opposition, upon the Board which would be fatal to the Director's
influence. Unless the Director be a man of immense deter
mination and courage, he will begin to feel that his task is
hopeless, and to avoid giving further occasion to hostility will
be careful to recommend nothing that is not inoffensive to the
Board, with a result that the purchases tend to be as undis
tinguished as those of a Committee pure and simple. Such a
breakdown of the Director's energy and initiative would, of
course, be a deplorable thing for a great Gallery ; since it is by
the exercise of these qualities that all great Galleries have been
made.

The fear of it is no imaginary thing. I myself, for example,
have not used the powers of emergency purchase which are
nominally granted to the Director, simply because experience
showed me that they were hedged round with so many cautionary
restrictions that their employment would have led to immediate
and formidable controversy. We have not perhaps lost much
thereby, and I have been saved the trouble of hunting the sale
rooms as carefully as I used to hunt them for the National
Portrait Gallery, but the fact may be cited to show how dread
of unpleasantness, even in a relatively trivial matter, may
hamper a Director's energies. For it must not be forgotten that
the very eminence of the Trustees, and the fact that the majority
of them are famous in debate and in public affairs, places a
Director at a great disadvantage the moment he has to discuss
questions of principle and procedure, and at some disadvantage
even when the controversy is more or less technical. He cannot
always be so ready with his arguments, so apposite in his illus
trations, or so just in his phrasing, as men whose lives have been
spent round the Council table. He cannot hope to succeed in a
discussion with such men, especially when they may be said to
belong to a society apart from his, with direct access perhaps
to the Cabinet or even to the Prime Minister, unless his case is
so overwhelming as to speak for itself. Even then some phrase
for which he is not prepared may lead to his undoing. Unless,
therefore, his powers, both personal and statutory, are con
siderable, the professional adviser to a Board of Trustees is likely
to find after a time that he has to struggle against an opposition
which is too strong for him. That is the inherent fault of the
1894 system.

Although I am in general agreement with Lord Carlisle's
Memorandum of June, 1902, a return to the constitution of
1855 might be distasteful to some members of the Board, as

392

EPILOGUE

diminishing too much the authority to which they have become
accustomed. I think the practical working of the Department
would be greatly improved by a much less drastic change,
which can best be understood by a brief summary of the historical
facts. The constitution of 1894 soon gave rise to internal
difficulties, and led to severe external criticism of the ineffec
tiveness of the Board at a time when fine pictures were rapidly
leaving the country. As a constitution, indeed, it did not differ
in essentials from the practice of the National Portrait Gallery,
which had worked without a single hitch during the whole
seven years of my Directorship there. But on coming to
Trafalgar Square I found that the constitution was interpreted-
in a wholly different spirit, with a wholly different tradition,
and a wholly different conception of the relation of the Trustees
to the Director. At the National Portrait Gallery the Director
was a professional adviser to the Board, and administrator of
the Gallery, whom the Trustees united to help and encourage.
At Trafalgar Square his opinion seemed neither to be asked
nor expected. As the controversies between Lord Lansdowne
and Sir Edward Poynter were on record, and as the breakdown
of Sir Charles Holroyd under the system had just occurred, I
saw that this attitude was not personal to myself but was the
tradition of the place. Lord Plymouth acted as mediator in
the discussions which ensued, and an assurance was obtained
from Lord Curzon that in 99 per cent, of the technical matters
discussed the Board would accept the Director's opinion. This
assurance, coupled with permission to make an emergency
purchase up to 2000, with the consent of two Trustees, removed
for the time being the more prominent disabilities of the Director
and Staff.

Hitherto the Chair at each meeting had been taken by the
senior Trustee who happened to be present. The appointment
in 1919 of a permanent Chairman created a new division of
authority, but as I had worked under Lord Dillon in that
capacity at the National Portrait Gallery with perfect ease, the
position was not unfamiliar. And with Lord Lansdowne, the
first Chairman, constitutional precedent was so carefully
observed that few difficulties arose. His successor, Lord Curzon,
so far enlarged the activities and authority of the Chairmanship,
that by degrees the Director's authority was gradually absorbed.
The cleaning of pictures, for example, being a highly technical
matter, had hitherto been done by the Director's order and on
his responsibility. Now the services of a foreign picture-cleaner
were pressed upon him strongly by certain members of the Board,

393

SELF AND PARTNERS

and on the Director's refusal to take responsibility for the change
he was ordered to report to the Board before any cleaning of
importance was undertaken (January, 1925). Shortly after
wards the Director was forbidden to make any change in the
attribution of pictures in the Gallery without first reporting to
the Board. Two years later the Trustees rejected the Director's
plan for hanging new acquisitions. By these and other decisions
of minor importance, the Director's power of making any change
in the arrangement, repair or labelling of the collections with
out risking a conflict with the Board was extinguished. Even
the propriety of his encouraging important gifts to the Gallery
was seriously challenged. . . .

In default of any more drastic remedy, it would be no small
help to harmonious working if some distinction could be drawn
officially and formally between the technical matters on which
the officers of the Department may be presumed to speak with
professional authority, and those matters of general and financial
policy where the counsel of the distinguished amateurs forming
the Board would be of service. Such technical matters would
seem to include the cataloguing, attribution, cleaning, restoration
and arrangement of the pictures in the collection, with the
selection of the suitable frames and backgrounds for them. The
right of the Director to decline pictures which he considers
unsuitable has never been challenged. It would be well in
addition to define beyond question his right of purchase and '
acquisition in emergencies, and of settling the organisation and
work of the departmental staff. He would then be able to use
his technical knowledge to proper advantage, although his
powers would still be less than those of the Directors of most of
the great Continental Galleries, or than those of his predecessors
of 1855-1894 by far the most notable epoch in our Gallery's
history. Such a definition, after all, would be hardly more
than a formal embodiment of the assurance given by Lord
Curzon in 1916, to which I have already referred.

In greater matters, the authority of the Trustees might well
remain as it is in the 1894 arrangement. By separating out this
technical business we should at once remove one of the most
constant causes of friction, . . . not only possible friction with a
Director, but a certain amount of trouble with the staff They
(the staff) can never know . . . whether they are not liable
to do something which is going to get either themselves or
someone else into trouble with the Board. The result is that
the actual working of the place is delayed by people wanting
to know whether they have authority for the smallest thing,

394

EPILOGUE

because they do not know whether it will be brought up in
judgment afterwards or not. I think it would make all our
lives a great deal easier if and now I am speaking as a human
being and not merely as an official we could be relieved of
that risk.

I want the Commission to recognise that a sensible Director
would not in any important issue commit himself, if he had the
least doubt, without telling one or two members of the Board
what he intended to do. ... I do not feel that in giving some
of these powers to the Director you do anything really except
help him to get through what is an enormous amount of work
with the least possible friction. 3

(2) The Turner Water-Colours

c The collection of Turner drawings may quite logically be
divided into two parts. The first part contains some three
or four thousand water-colour drawings, finished or partially
finished, which are of very great aesthetic interest and value,
and have a very considerable market value, since a great many
of them belong to the phase of Turner which is most highly
valued by collectors all over the world.

The second portion consists of sketch books in pencil isolated
sketches in pencil mere scribbles and note books, of which I
believe there must be something like 12,000 the material from
which Turner composed his pictures. Those have a very
definite historical interest for the few, really few, students of
Turner. They have all, by the action of the Trustees in the
past, been arranged in good order, and if they were deposited
on loan in the British Museum they could there be stored and
kept in the way which would make them most useful to the
occasional student.

The coloured drawings, on the other hand, ought to be
retained by the Trustees, because they are part of the nucleus
of Turner, which is perhaps the largest remaining asset that the
Trustees have for interchange of loans. A group of Turner
water-colours might well go with any show of English pictures,
because there is nothing which is better calculated to show the
originality and greatness of the English School. If those were
once deposited anywhere else, as at the British Museum, we at
the National Gallery would be divesting ourselves, quite un
necessarily, of one of the most valuable parts of the possessions
with which we are entrusted. And I venture to say that at the
British Museum they would be infinitely less accessible, when

395

SELF AND PARTNERS

once put away in their portfolios, than they may ultimately
become if they are looked after either at Trafalgar Square or
at Millbank. When the question of custody at Millbank arose
a few weeks ago, my colleague spoke to me about this, and I
said at once : " If you are in any doubt let me have them
at the National Gallery and I will somehow or other make
arrangements for their custody, short-handed as we are." I think
it is most important that the Trustees should not be induced
to relinquish by any specious arguments, something which is
not only extraordinarily creditable to English Art but which
is very closely wrapped up with the unique collection of Turner
paintings which we possess.'

ERRATA

p. 1 88, 1. 8. For c Richard ' read c Robert 5
p. 248, 1. 21. 'Posilipo' e Pozzuoli 3

1. 29. c thank * < could thank *
P. 35 1 * 1 - 9* c *93* '

396

INDEX

Agnew, Lockett, 226

Aitken, Charles, 307, 330, 3425

373

Alexander, Prince, 85
Alexander, Mr., 269
Allen, Grant, 140
Allen, Sir Hugh, 370
Ambrose, G. E., 319
America, 148-150, 189, 222-224,

287, 291, 303, 334, 336, 345,

34 6 > 355, 356, 369* 37 1 372,

376, 378

Anson, Sir W., 264
Apuleius, 175, 176
Archery, 50, 51
Armstrong, Miss, 225
Arnold, Edward, 132, 133, 137
Asquith, Earl of Oxford and, 232,

262, 280, 286, 288, 289, 304,

35> 3i5> 32i, 325
Asquith, Countess of Oxford and,

3 2 5

Austin, Alfred, 198
Austria, 372, 377

Bacon, T. W., 271, 272, 282

Bailey, J. T., 210

Baines, Sir Frank, 327

Baker, C. H. Collins, 226, 275,
285, 3H, 318-324, 327, 328,
329, 33 1 , 334, 343> 344, 34,
353, 3 6 7> 369, 382

Balcarres, Lord, 264

Baldwin, Mr. Stanley, 350, 374

Balfour, Lord, 1 1 8, 222, 232, 244,

245> 352, 353. 387
Ballantyne Press, 127, 129-131,

137-140, 143, 144, 173, 179
Bangs, Lemuel W., 148
Barren, Oswald, 188
Barstow, Sir George, 372
Bate, Francis, 237, 284, 302

Beardsley, Aubrey, 167, 168, 229
Beatty, E. T., 33, 34
Beaven, Rev. A. B., 53-56
Beerbohrn, Max, 170, 187, 242,

284, 300, 303
Beit, Alfred, 215
Belgium, i33' I 35> 205
Bell, C. F., 259, 262, 264
Bell, R. Aiming, 164
Bennett, Arnold, 342
Benson, A. C., 92
Benson, R. H., 319
Bentinck, Lord Henry, 282, 297,

357
Berenson, B., 181, 198, 213, 214,

227, 272, 333
Bernhardt, Sarah, 158
Bertie, Lord, 339
Bickers, G. H., 354
Binyon, Laurence, 152, 181, 186-

190,211,235,259,262,307
Birley, Mrs. Langton, 97
Birrell, Mr. A., 286
Blacklock, Sam, 106, 201
Blackwell, Geoffrey, 283
Blaikie, W. B., 119-122, 128
Blanche, Jacques, 194
Bland, F. L. 5 82
Bode, Dr. W., 214, 230, 231, 269,

270

Bone, Canon F., 24-26, 138
Bone, Muirhead, 284
Booker, W. D., 367
Books, see Writing
Booth, Sir Alfred, 335, 341
Bottomley, Horatio, 126
Boxing, 105, 106, 139, 140, 153,

157, 201, 202
Brandram, S., 81, 236
Brasenose, 90, 91, 99-111, 141,

202, 238, 239, 242
Brereton, Cloudesley, 188

397

SELF AND PARTNERS

Brewer, Cecil, 188
British Museum, 3, 159, 390^ 395
Broadbent, Henry, 73
Bromley-by-Bow, 14, 15-16, 17, 19
Brown, Fred, 281, 284
Brown, Prof. G, Baldwin, 235
Brownlow, Lady, 378
Buckmaster, Lord, 335, 341
Bude, 19, 22, 27, 28, 138, 238
'Burlington Magazine,* 210, 213-

234, 262, 267, 268-270, 281, 322,

372

Burnham, Lord, 324
Burnside, Canon, 39, 351
Burton, Sir F., 118
Bussell, Dr. F. W., 91, 102, 247
Butler, Dr. A. J., 101, 102, 125,

202, 227, 228, 235, 238, 362
Butler, Mr. A. J., 115, 125
Butler, Samuel, 180
Buttery, A. H., 295, 379

Calderon, George, 188, 192
Cambridge, 7, 8, 88, 89, 124, 255,

352, 353, 3 6 7
Cameron, Sir D. Y., 148
Campbell-Bannerman, Sir H., 223
Canterbury, 35, 38-46, 59-65, 173,

37> 350, 35i
Carfax, 176, 199, 231, 253, 282,

283, 297, 357
Carline, Sydney, 301
Carlisle, Lord, 220, 296, 392
Carnsew, J., 138
Carr, Rev. C. H., 9, 10
Carr-Bosanquet, R., 159
Carter, Dr. Ronald, 278, 279
Casimir-Perier, 9, 17
Central London Railway, 327
Chamberlain, Sir Austen, 333,

335, 336> 34<>> 34i
Chamberlain, Mr. Joseph, 53, 153
Chamberlain, Mr. Neville, 172
Chandler, Rev. A., 104, 105
Chappell, Mrs., 19
Charlemagne, 1-3
Charteris, Sir Evan, 331, 361
Child, Harold, 108, 153, 154, 225,

256, 266,314

398

Christian, Princess, 63
Christie's, 177, 304, 379
Churchill, Mr. Winston, 286, 361,

37 1

Clarke, Charles, 378

Clarke, Louis C. G., 210

Clarke, Sir Purdon, 222

Clay, Walter, 185, 186, 210

Clergy Orphan School, see Canter
bury

Clifton, A. B., 231

Cluff, Rev. W. C. } 39

Clutton-Brock, Arthur, 73, 79-81,
I3 1 * J 97> 28l > 283, 2 9 8 > 3^2

Cobham, Lord, 264, 277

Cochrane, A. S., 155, 188

Cockerell, Sir Sydney, 314, 352

Codling, Sir W. R., 268

Cole, John, 76, 91

Collier, Constance, 189

Collins Baker, see Baker

Colnaghi's, 153, 177, 357

Colvin, Sir Sidney, 235, 244, 274

Conder, Charles, 170, 194, 195,
200, 230

Connaught, Duke of, 384

Constable, Archibald, 119

Constable, Messrs., 208

Constable, T. and A., 119, 120,
128

Constable, Prof. W. G., 367

Conway, Lord, 220, 314, 356

Cook, Sir Herbert, 214, 270

Cook, Wyndham, 215

Cornwall, 17-28, 238

Cornwall, W. E., 60, 61

Cotterill, L., 78

Courtauld, S., 384

Cox, Miss, 367

Cravath, Paul, 335, 341

Creighton, Bishop, 118

Cricket, 84, 106, 107, 135, 136

Cripps, Reginald, 64, 99-101, 104-
110,133-137,153,157,179,186,
188, 192, i95-*99> 201, 247-249,
285

Curzon, Lord, 242, 244, 245, 280,
288, 296, 297, 314, 318, 320-
322, 324, 325, 335, 342, 343,

INDEX

348, 35i ? 372, 377, 379> 383, j
385-388, 393,. 394 !

Gust, Sir Lionel, 235, 245, 259,
260, 263, 267, 275, 378

D'Abernon, Lord, 324, 325, 328

Daniel, Mrs., 108, 240

Davidson, Archbishop, 361, 362

Davies, Randall, 188

Dawes, Frank, 218

Degas Sale, 335-342

Dell, Robert, 210, 213-216

Devonshire, 30-37, 201, 202

Dickson family, 9, 10

Dickson, Adela, 48, 53, (niece) 316

Dickson, Alan, 316

Dickson, Arthur, 48, 58, 157, 328

Dickson, Edmund, 48, 49, 57, 58,

92,93

Dickson, Rev. F. J., 116, 117
Dickson, Canon H. Granville, 117,

119, 157,352

Dickson, Joseph Briggs, 10, 47, 48
Dickson, Mary Susan, see Mrs.

Charles R. Holmes
Dickson, Col. Norman., 201
Dickson, William, 47
Dieppe, 194, 195
Dilke, Sir Charles, 191
Dillon, Lord, 264, 265, 288, 295,

301, 303, 307, 317, 343, 393
Dobson, Denis, 201, 202
Dobson, W. G., 188, 201
Dodgson, Campbell, 1 08, 215, 219
Dodgson, John, 367
Doughty, C. H. M., 90
Dowson, Ernest, 195
Drawing, see Painting
Dublin, 310, 311,324, 374
Dulac, Edmund, 326
Duncan, Mrs., 310
Duveen, Lord, 226, 324, 355, 373,

384* 3^7

Earle, Sir Lionel, 290, 327
Eden, River, 213, 362, 365
Epstein, Jacob, 243, 294, 326, 380
Esterhazy, 189
Estes and Lauriat, 148-150

Etching, 142, 143, 148, 149
Eton, 64, 65, 67-93, 360
Evans, Sir Arthur, 242, 243

Farlow, Messrs., 365

Farnell, Dr., 375

Farrer, Reginald, 297-299

ffoulkes, Charles, 307

Field, Michael, 175, 180

Firth, Sir Charles, 264

Firth, Rev. R., 53

Fishing, 27, 28, 43, 44, 49, 50, 57,
62, 82, 85, 95, 97-99, 109-111,
128, 154, 156, 157,213,238,251,
252, 260-262, 278, 279, 292, 293,
298-300, 312, 316, 333, 350,
362-365

Fitzmaurice, Lord, 264

Football, 68-71, 84, 107, 1 1 8, 119

Fowler, Dr. G. H., 188

France, Anatole, 229

Frernantle, Sir Francis, 82, 88

Frick, H. C., 223, 224

Friedlander, Dr., 219, 231

Frost, W. K, 35-37

Fry, Sir Geoffrey, 335-33$

Fry, Roger, 170, 177, 190, 191,
*99> 213-216, 219-225, 232, 235,
270, 274, 275, 280-282, 300,

3*4, 335, 356
Furse, Charles, 199
Furse, Michael, 78

Gavrilovitch, Mr., 359

Geology, 57, 58, 72, 353

George, Mr. Lloyd, 286, 325, 348-

349* 386
Germany, 196, 200, 2?8, 230, 231,

305, 306, 366, 378
Ghosts, 44, 45, 122-124
Gibson, Mrs. Frank, 359
Gladstone, Mr., 112, 118, 186
Gleadowe, Prof. R. M. Y., 240,

367, 368, 370* 378, 384
Gleichen, the Ladies, 359
Glover, R. S., 308
Godley, A. D., 241
Golf, 128, 153
Gordon, General, 275, 276

399

SELF AND PARTNERS

Gorst, Sir John, 10, 185, 190
Gosse, Edmund, 152, 264, 287,

288, 300

Gower, Lord Ronald, 151, 264
Grace, W. G., 107
Greenslade, Sydney, 188
Grissell, H. de la G., 116
Grosvenor Gallery, 163, 357
Gurney, Sir E., 352
Gutekunst, O., 357

Hacon, W. Llewellyn, 170, 171,

174, 176, 194, 195
Haden, Sir K Seymour, 118, 149,

271

Hale, Rev. E., 72, 76
Hamilton-Bruce, R. T., 120-122
Hanson, Edward, 127, 128, 139,

143, 144

Hardy, Messrs., 365
Harmsworth, Alfred, 71
Harmsworth, Lady, 199
Headlam, Lionel, 8r, 82, 88, 92
Healy, Tim, 118
Heberden, C. B., IQI, 238
Henley, W. E., 120-122, 140, 141,

301

Henn, Rev. H., 88
Herkomer, Prof. H., 108
Herringham, Lady, 221, 278
Heseltine,J. P., 319, 378
Hibburd, E. W., 115
Hill, Miss Anne Newell, 204
Hill, Miss Bessie, 64
Hill, Sir G. R, 323, 330
Hills, Major J. W., 374
Hind, Prof. A. M., 286, 307
Hoare,J. D., 188
Holder, W., 328, 329, 379
Holland, 133-137, 356
Holme, Charles, 187
Holmes family, 2, 3, 4
Holmes, Rev. Charles Rivington,

4-8, 11-19, 21-24, 26
Holmes, Mrs. Charles R., 9-19,

21, 26, 29, 34-36, 94, 96, 97,

117, 123, 125, 143, 161, 183,

256, 258
Holmes, Lady (Evelyn), 257

Holmes, Lady (Florence), 123,
1 24, 204-206, 211-213,251, 256-
258, 261, 265, 278, 310, 326, 332,

35 8 > 359, 37<>

Holmes, Francis Herbert, 21, 30,
31, 49, 51, 65, 97-99, 1 06, 124

Holmes, Herbert Rivington, 4, 6,
48

Holmes, John (' Tayler ' of Ro
chester), 2

Holmes, John (of the British
Museum), 3-8

Holmes, Mrs. John, 4, 5, 6

Holmes, Martin Rivington, 238,

25 1 * 34 6

Holmesj Miss Mary Anne Riving
ton, 2, 4, 197,355

Holmes, Sir Richard Rivington, 4,
5,6, 11,25,62,63,78,118, 133,
1 60, 264, 270, 272, 273, 285

Holmes, Sir Robert, 2, 3

Holmes, Robert Rivington, 251,
254, 2 5 6 , 283

Holmes, Stephen, 2

Holroyd, Sir Charles, 189, 222,
223, 272, 287, 313, 315, 318,
320, 32 1, S3 1 , 393

Hopkins, Sir Richard, 371

Hornby, Dr. J. J., 72, 73, 8 1, 91

Home, Herbert P., 190, 196, 209,
249, 273

Home, Sir Robert, 372

Housman, Laurence, 210

Hussey, Dynely, 367

Hutchinson, Rev. H. N., 153

Hyslop, Dr., 280

Image, Prof. Selwyn, 274, 281
Inrnan, Mrs., 94
International Society, 236, 237
Ireland, 310, 311, 324, 346, 347,

373, 374
Italy, 179-181, 195-198, 246-250

Jackson, T. G., 235
Jalland,H., 188
James, Dr. H. A., 65, 124, 240
James, Henry, 230, 238
James, Dr. Montague R., 360

40O

INDEX

Japan, Crown Prince of, 384

Jasper family, 2, 3

Jenkinson, A. J., 242, 244

Jepson, Edgar, 188

John, Augustus, 200, 245, 284,

357, 3^1,370
Johnson, John G., 223
Johnson, Lionel, 81, 108
Joynes, Rev. J. L., 65

Kaiser, the, 85, 241,378

Kay, H. L, 367

Kent, C. W., 107

Keynes, J. Maynard, 335, 336,

340-342
King, H.M. The, 308, 309, 351,

378

King, Rev. Bryan, 14
King, Dr. John, 20
Kingsley, Miss Alice, 170
Kirkby,P.J.,6 4 ,6 5
Kirk's, 183, 1 86
Knoedler's, 335-342
Knott, Ralph, 296
Knutsford, Lord, 264, 301
Krogh, Christian, 194
Kuhlmann, R. von, 305

Lake District, 57, 65-67, 128, 154-

Lane, Sir Hugh P., 237, 324, 373,

374

Lane, John, 171. 173, 383
Lansdowne, Lord, 287, 314, 320,

32i 5 344, 379, 38o, 385, 387,

388,39^393
Lascelles, Lord, 360
Laun, Henry van, 147
Laurie, Dr. A. P., 356
Law, Mr. Bonar, 288, 348, 349,

37 6 ? 385

Layard Collection, 319, 323
Lee, Lord, 348
Lee-Warner, P. H., 275, 280, 285,

312, 33 1 , 3 8 3
Legg, W. W., 89
Leggatt, Ernest, 304
Legros, Alphonsej 170
Leighton, Sir F., 96, 118, 164

Leverhulme, Lord, 370
Lewis, T. B., 52, 92, 176
Lewis, Wyndham, 188
Limehouse, 10, u, 286
Lindsay, Sir Coutts, 264
Lister family, i
Lloyd-Baker, A. B., 240
Lodge, Sir Oliver, 325
Longmans, 126, 127, 131, 143, 144
Lowis, Elizabeth, 255, 256
Lowry, Sir Arthur, 188
Lucas, Richard Cockle, 3, 231, 269
Luxmoore, H. E., 76, 360

Macbeth, Robert, 148
Macbeth-Raeburn, H. 5 148, 149
McCall, Charles, 139
MacCoU, D. S., 170, 190, 216,
220-223, 229, 233, 235, 267, 330,

342, 373
MacDonald, Mr. Ramsay, 349,

35

MacDonnell, Sir Schornberg, 268
Macgregor, H., 172
McKenna, Mr. Reginald, 325
Mackenzie, Dr. Morell, 16
Maclagan, Sir Eric, 282, 342, 350
Macpherson, Mr. Ian, 374
Manchester, 96, 253, 269
Marks, Murray, 230
Martin, Sir Alec, 379
Martin, E. le B., 171
Martin, Dr. F. R., 228, 229, 305
Martin, Prof. Dr. W., 356
Masefield, John, 188
Matheson, Rev. C., 39, 64
Mayer, G., 177, 201,335
Mayor, Fred, 59
Meiklejohn, Sir Roderick, 268
Mestrovic, 312
Methuen, Paul, 240
Midland Railway, 206, 322
Millais, Sir John, 96, 118, 178
Mills family, 22, 28
Milner, J. D., 263-266, 269, 275,

2973304,307,314,317
MoncriefF, H. A., 115, 211
Mond Collection, 369, 384, 386
Moore, George, 190
401

SELF AND PARTNERS

Moore, Rev. H. D., 15

Moore, T. Sturge, 1 64, 1 69, 1 75, 200
Mordaunt, H. J., 83, 84
Morelli, A., 174
Morgan, George, 188
Morgan, J. Pierpont, 1223, 224, 272
Morley, Lord, 286, 325
Morris, Max, 357
Morris, Miss May, 189
Morris, William, 81
Morris, Mrs. William, 172
Munnings, A. J., 209
Mushet, P. J., 131, 137
Myers, F. W. H., 81

National Art-Collections Fund,

221,233,285,342,377
National Gallery, 190, 222, 223,

232, 233, 267, 287, 294, 296,

312-335, 342-344* 354, 3^8-396
National Portrait Gallery, 259,

260, 262-272, 275-277, 290-295,

297, 303-37> 3 i 5-320, 328, 392,

393

Nelson, Thomas, 120
New English Art Club, 199, 237,

238, 250-254, 284, 285, 302, 331,

356, 357

Nightingale, Florence, 276
Nimmo, John C., 144-152, 159-162
Norwich, 156, 209, 351, 352

Oldham, E. H., 6i 3 62
Oldmeadow, E. J., 187
Opera, 158, 189,332,333,358,359
Oppenheimer, Henry, 327, 354
Ormsby-Gore, Mr., 240, 241, 251
Orpen, Sir William, 200, 284, 331,

357

Orrinsmith, H., 115
Orrock, James, 207, 208
Osborne, E. B., 55, 56, 58, 61, 65
Ottery St. Mary, 35-37
Oxford, 88, 90, 91, 107, 225, 235,

236, 238-246, 262, 263, 273, 274,

3 6 7> 375

Painting and Drawing; 32, 33, 78,
94-97, 108, 118, 152-156, 192,

194, 198-201, 205, 206, 211,
| 212,237, 249-254, 269, 282-285,
292, 297, 302, 303, 312, 331,

332, 355, 357, 35 8
Palmistry, 162
Papillon, Canon, 197
Paris, 335-342, 373
Parker, Eric, 67, 82, 285, 301
Pater, Walter, 102, 103, 125, 247
Patti, Carlotta, 258
Pedder, Rev. J. W., 57, 90, 316
Peel, S. C., 304
Phillips, Sir Claude, 158, 214, 218,

219, 222, 226, 227, 280, 285,

314, 324, 379, 383, 384
Pink, Lieut., 309
Pissarro, Camille, 170
Pissarro, Lucien, 169, 170, 175, 284
Plymouth, Lord, 207, 220, 270,

280, 314, 320-322, 345, 382, 393
Powell, 68
Poynter, Sir E. J., 96, 190, 199,

220, 223, 264, 320, 380, 393
Preston, 9, 10, 14, 17, 18, 29, 34,

36, 38, 47-58, 65, 122, 123

Queen, H.M. The, 351, 360

RadclifFe, William, 362

Raphael, Sir Herbert, 264, 299

Rashlcigh, W. W., 107

Rawlinson, W. G., 208

Reeve, James, 209

Rendall, Vernon, 191, 210, 235

Ribblesdale, Lord, i, 264, 314,

315, 317, 333> 382

Ricketts, Charles, 141-143, 149,
152, 159, 162-181, 196, 197, 199,
212, 219-221, 230, 237, 249, 256,
258, 274, 280, 285, 300, 314, 326

Riley, Mr., 141, 169

Ringrose, Mr., 356

Rivington family, 3, 4, 204

Rivington firm, 112-127, 131, 146

Rivington, Charles, 4

Rivington, Charles Robert, 204-
206, 211, 270

Rivington, Florence Mary Hill,
see Holmes, Lady (Florence)

402

INDEX

Rivington, Francis Hansard, 1 1 1 -

1 1 6, 183, 184, 302
Rivington, Luke, Monsignor, 6, 1 16
Rivington, Septimus, 1 12, 1 13, 126
Rivington, Thurstan, Canon, 7, 8
Rivington, William, 4, 1 i, 204
Robinson, Sir Charles, 177
Roche's, 187-193, 196, 201
Rodin, A., 237, 312
Roe,W.N.,43,6 2
Rogers, Rev. W., 13, 118
Rosebery, Lord, 232
Rosenheim, Max, 215
Ross, Robert, 199, 229, 230, 255,

263, 33 1

Rothenstein, Charles, 237
Rothenstein, Sir William, 164,

170, 171,200,284,331
Rothschild, Alfred de, 224, 232, 33 1
Rothschild, Lady, 361
Royal Academy, 190, 199, 200,

222, 223, 311, 312, 329, 375
Royal Naval Volunteer Reserve,

307-310 ^
Royal Society of Painter-Etchers,

149

Royal Society of Painters in Water-
Colours, 357

Ruskin, John, 66, 77-79, 152, 227,
238, 243, 274, 282

Rutherston, Albert, 353

Sadler, Sir Michael, 283, 297, 303
Sadler, Michael, 292
Salaman, F. S., 215, 216
Salisbury, Lord, 118, 232
Salting, George, 272, 273
Sandringham, 308, 309, 331
Sargent, John, 223, 236, 284, 361
Sassoon, Sir Philip, 351, 352, 360,

37i, 372

Saunderson, Colonel, 118
Saunderson, Richard, 256
Savage, Reginald, 141, 164, 165,169
Schmidt-Degener, Dr. F., 356
Scotland, 94-96, 119-122, 195
Scribner, Messrs., 148
Selbie, Dr. W. B., 105
Serena, Arthur, 377

Service^ F. S., 144

Seward, Dr. A. C., 255, 353

Shannon, Charles, 141, 142, 1493

159, 162-165, 169, 171, 172, 176-

180, 199, 212, 237, 249, 258
Sharpe, Cecil, 205
Shaw, G. Bernard, 229, 303
Sickert, Walter, 168, 236, 256,

263, 284, 288, 359
Simcox, Elizabeth, 18
Smith, Algernon, 225
Smith, Sir Cecil Harcourt, 323, 330
Smith, G. Dunbar, 188, 352
Smith, Reginald, 303
SmitherSj Leonard, 170
Snowden, Lord, 349
South Kensington Museum, 132^

J 58 3 I59> I9> 233, 272
Spain, 355

Speyer, Sir Edgar, 218
Spicer, Sir Evan. 115
Spottiswoode's, 150, 213
Stables, L. Gordon, 225
Steele, Robert, 180, 188
Steer, P. Wilson, 190, 200, 236,

250, 283, 284, 357
Stephen, Lady, 276
Steriy, Sir Wasey, 71
Stoddart, G. R., 40
Stone, E. D., 67, 76
Strachey, Lytton, 276
Strang, William, 109, 148, 149,

152, 189, 200, 256, 284
Stratton, 19-27, 138, 238, 383
Streatfeild, R. A., 188, 192
Sudeley, Lord, 267, 291, 369
Suffragettes, 301, 304, 305
SuUey, Arthur, 226, 333, 334
Sullivan, John L., 106
Swainson family, 10
Swainson, Dr. Charles, 88
Swinburne, A. C., 79-81, 175
Switzerland, 211, 212, 250
Symonds, J. A., 147, 148, 151, 152

Tait, Archbishop, 14, 17, 59
Tarver, Frank, 68
Tate Gallery, 178, 267, 296, 329,
33. 334; 375> 39

403

SELF AND PARTNERS

Temple, Archbishop, 19, 20
Tennant, Sir Charles, 207
Terry, EUen, 271
Thaulow 3 Fritz, 194, 197
Theatres, 96, 157, 158, 165
Thesiger, Ernest, 189
Thomas,, Sir W. Beach, i88 5 192
Thorpe, W. K, 45
Titchener, Prof. E. B., 105, 141
Tonks, Prof. Henry, 284, 357
Toynbee family, 3
Toynbee, Harry, 125
Toynbee, Mrs. Joseph, 3, 165
Troubetskoi, Prince, 237
Turner, A. H., 153
Turner, Hawes, 294
Turner, J. M. W., 389, 390, 395,
396

Upcott, Dr. A. W., 39

Vale, The, 141-143, 145, 163-170
Vale Press, 171-176, 182, 204, 211
Vaughan, Cardinal, 140
Vaughan, E. L., 92
Vaux, Richard, 188
Vickers, Ronald, no
Victoria, Queen, 79
Volunteer Civil Force, 307
Voynich, Mrs., 188

Wales, The Prince of, 352

Walford, Desborough, 137, 153

Walker, Sir Emery, 115, 269

Wallis, Sir Whitworth, 314

Wallop, Hon. F., 366

Walters. Henry, 223

Ware, Sir Fabian, 326

Warre, Dr. Edmond, 55, 84-86, 92

Waters, Arthur, 108

Watson, Rev. Albert, 101

Watson, H. G., 61

Weale, W H. James, 226, 241, 242

Weardale, Lord, 304
Weaver, Sir Laurence, 188
Webb, Sir Aston, 329, 375
Wellington, Hubert, 370
Wertheimer, Asher, 226, 333
West, J.Walter, 164
Westminster, 117-119, 143, 152-

154, 182, 191, 346
Westmorland, 204, 206, 257, 278,

292, 293, 302, 346, 362
Whistler, J. M.. 139, 142, 172, 173,

189, 237

White, Jack, 128
Whitworth, Geoffrey, 240
Wild, Sir Ernest, 88
Wilde, Oscar, 157, 166-169, 263,

294. 33i

Wilenski, R. H., 240
Wilhelmj, August, 257, 258
Williams, A. B., 44
Williamson, Dr. John, 143
Wilson, President, 345
Winchester, 63, 64, 90, 108, 199
Windrush, The, 90, 102, 109, no,

202, 203, 312, 348, 363-365
Windsor Castle, 62, 63, 65, 78, 79,

85, 257

Windsor, Lord, see Plymouth
Wisselingh, E. J. van, 199, 200
Witt, Sir Robert, 314, 317, 384
Wooldridge, Prof. H. E., 235
Woollen, Frank, 225
Writing, 80, 175, 186, 187, 190,
191, 207-210, 219-221, 232, 233,
239, 244, 252, 275, 280, 281, 283,
286, 293, 300, 301, 312, 353-355,
369

Yeats, W. B., 310, 311

Yockney, A., 357

Yorkshire, 56, 57, 206, 260-262,

278, 279, 298, 332
Youssoupoff, Prince, 376

Z

104310